THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Ted  Barrett 


"Books  that  you  may  carry 
to  the  fire,  and  bold  readily 
in  your  band,  are  the  most 
useful  after  all " 

— JOHNSON 


STORIES   OF 
THE   ARMY 


STORIES   FROM   SCRIBNER 

t 

STORIES  OF 

THE  ARMY 


NEW  YORK 
CHARLES   SCRIBNER'S   SONS 

1893 


Copyright,  1893,  by 
Charles  Scribner's  Sons 


UN. 


STORIES  OF  THE   ARMY 


MEMORIES 
BY  BRANDER  MATTHEWS 


A  CHARGE  FOR  FRANCE 

BY   JOHN  HEARD,    JR. 


SERGEANT  GORE 
BY  LEROY  ARMSTRONG 


THE  TALE  OF  A  GOBLIN  HORSE 
BY  CHARLES  C.  NOTT 


682681 


MEMORIES 


BY  BRANDER  MATTHEWS 
With  Illustrations  by  Theodore  Hampe 


HEN  Christmas  broke 
over  the  fort  in  the 
far  Northwest  where 

W£iy  Lieutenant  Robert 
Douglas,  U.S. A.,  was 
stationed,  the  wind 
was  blowing  gently 
from  the  southeast.  There  had  been  a 
light  snowfall  during  the  night,  and  as  the 
sun  arose  there  was  a  faint  suggestion  of 
warmth  in  the  beams  that  glistened  across 
the  crystalline  flakes.  It  seemed  as  though 
the  cold  had  loosened  its  grip  for  a  while. 
All  through  the  morning  the  weather  was 
mild  for  the  season  and  for  the  place,  and 
by  noon  there  was  even  a  vague  hint  of 
a  possible  thaw.  The  mail -rider  who 
brought  the  weekly  bag  of  letters  and 
newspapers  had  trotted  his  broncho  into 


the  quadrangle  a 
little  before  one 
o'clock,  exactly 
on  time.  No  rail- 
road and  no  tele- 
graph line  linked  Fort  Roosevelt  with  the 
rest  of  the  world,  and  only  once  in  seven 
days  did  the  soldiers  who  were  stationed 
on  the  outpost  of  civilization  get  news 
from  its  headquarters.  Time  was  when 
the  troopers  quartered  there  had  fought 
the  Indians  of  the  border  ;  but  the  rotting 
stockade  had  been  torn  down  long  since, 
and  Fort  Roosevelt  was  now  a  fort  in  name 
only.  Its  narrow,  low  buildings,  made  of 
logs,  shacked  sometimes,  and  sometimes 
squared  and  more  regularly  joined,  still 


MEMORIES  13 

sheltered  brave  men,  but  they  no  longer 
needed  to  do  battle  with  redskins ;  they 
had  to  confront  a  white  enemy  only,  and 
they  found  cold  winter  a  fiercer  foe  and 
more  unrelenting  than  the  Sioux.  Its  as- 
sault was  harder  to  withstand,  for,  al- 
though the  Indian  is  now  armed  with  the 
repeating  rifle  his  armory  is  not  exhaust- 
less — and  nature's  is.  Outside  of  the  gov- 
ernment reservation  there  was  no  house 
within  fifty  miles,  save  the  tumble-down 
cabin  of  a  Missouri  squatter  four  or  five 
furlongs  away  at  the  bend  of  the  river. 
No  friendly  smoke  curling  hospitably  up- 
ward comforted  the  eye  that  might  inter- 
rogate the  horizon. 

It  was  about  two  o'clock  when  the  bliz- 
zard began.  At  noon  a  solemn  stillness 
filled  the  air,  after  the  wind  from  the 
southeast  had  died  away  early  in  the  day. 
Then,  all  at  once,  there  was  a  black  cloud 
in  the  northwest,  swelling  forward  boldly 
— on  the  plains  of  the  West,  as  on  the 


14  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

coasts  of  the  East,  the  most  dangerous 
northwester  is  wont  to  come  butt-end  first. 
Lieutenant  Douglas  saw  the  signal  and 
knew  its  significance.  He  looked  at  his 
watch ;  there  would  be  time  for  the  troop- 
er to  return  before  the  storm  was  upon 
them.  Two  of  the  lank  and  sallow  chil- 
dren of  Pike  County  Pete  lay  sick  of  a 
fever  in  the  wretched  cabin  by  the  elbow 
of  the  river ;  they  were  attended  by  the 
surgeon  of  the  post,  and  they  had  been 
nursed  by  the  doctor's  daughter,  Lucy. 
It  was  to  them  that  the  officer  had  sent  a 
mounted  messenger  with  a  few  delicacies 
from  his  scant  store,  such  as  the  doctor 
had  suggested.  Douglas  stood  for  a  mo- 
ment at  the  corner  of  the  parade  between 
the  storehouse  of  the  commissary  and  the 
long  single-story  stables.  He  was  a  young 
man  still,  despite  the  grizzled  mustache 
which  curved  over  his  resolute  mouth, 
and  the  touch  of  gray  in. his  hair.  His  eye 
was  sharp  and  his  figure  straight  and 


MEMORIES  15 

sturdy.  As  he  gazed  the  black  cloud  up- 
rose and  spread  wide,  and  the  blizzard 
broke.  He  caught  the  first  breath  of  the 
icy  simoom  which  came  sweeping  across 
the  Sahara  of  arid  snow,  and  he  went 
back  into  the  stables  to  give  a  few  words 
of  warning  and  advice  to  his  men. 

When  he  came  out  a  little  later  to  cross 
the  quadrangle  to  the  officers'  quarters, 
the  breeze  had  freshened  and  quickened 
until  it  blew  a  gale.  The  velocity  of  the 
wind  was  increasing,  and  it  was  already 
thirty  miles  an  hour.  Within  sixty  min- 
utes the  temperature  fell  as  many  degrees. 
The  atmosphere,  thick  with  flying  snow, 
as  fine  as  sand  and  as  sharp  as  a  needle, 
began  to  darken  as  though  it  were  already 
nightfall.  The  lieutenant  strode  through 
the  storm,  which  for  the  most  part  was 
steady  and  unswerving,  although  now  and 
again  a  gust  swept  sideways,  and  for  a  few 
seconds  there  might  be  an  eddy.  But  the 
break  was  for  a  moment  only.  Then  the 


l6  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 


wind  gathered  its  strength  and  again 
rushed  ahead,  irresistible  and  pitiless.  A 
fine  shower  of  icy  particles,  frozen  snow-' 
dust,  and  solid  rain-drops,  made  Douglas's 
passage  from  the  stable  to  his  own  door 
almost  impossible,  sheltered  as  was  the 
little  square  within  the  buildings  of  the 
fort.  Out  in  the  open  no  one  can  make 
headway  against  the  ice-blast  for  long, 
and  only  the  most  experienced  plainsman 
can  hold  his  own. 

The  stout  log-house  in  which  the  officers 
had  their  quarters  shook  with  the  fury  of 
the  gale  as  Robert  Douglas  entered  the 
sitting-room  he  shared  with  his  fellow-sub- 
altern, Paulding  Van  Dyke.  The  mail 
had  been  distributed,  and  the  servant  had 
laid  on  the  table  the  letters  and  papers 
of  the  two  officers.  For  Van  Dyke  there 
were  at  least  a  dozen  envelopes,  besides 
two  or  three  packets — presents,  no  doubt, 
thought  Douglas,  as  he  took  up  his  single 
letter  from  a  tidy  heap  of  newspapers  on 


which  it  rested.  It  was  Christmas  after- 
noon, and  probably  Van  Dyke  was  at  the 
doctor's  little  house  talking  to  Lucy, 
whom  he  was  to  marry  in  the  spring — and 
that  was  why  he  was  now  neglecting  the 
many  Christmas  greetings  the  mail- rider 
had  brought  him. 
Douglas  tore  open  his 
own  letter,  and  as  he 
read  it  his  face  bright- 
ened and  his  eyes  lost 
a  little  of  their  sever- 
ity. It  was  a  brief  note 
from  the  editor  of  an 
important  review  in 
New  York,  declaring 
that  he  had  great 
pleasure  in  accepting 
Mr.  Douglas's  thoughtful  and  admirable 
essay,  "  How  to  Train  the  Indian  for 
Citizenship,"  and  he  hoped  to  find  room 
for  it  in  an  early  number.  The  officer 
had  taken  the  letter  to  the  light  to  read  ; 


18  STORIES   OF  THE  ARMY 

and  having  put  the  editorial  communi- 
cation into  his  pocket  he  stood  at  the 
window,  silent  in  thought.  On  the  level 
ground  before  his  door  the  fantasy  of  the 
wind  had  heaped  a  grave-like  mound  of 
snow,  as  though  some  frozen  giant  had 
been  buried  there.  Douglas's  eyes  fell 
on  it  unwittingly,  and  the  sorrowful  shriek- 
ing of  the  wind,  as  though  demons  were 
'chanting  a  dirge,  struck  chill  on  his  ear, 
and  he  shivered. 

He  turned  away  and  threw  another 
cotton-wood  stick  on  the  fire,  which  was 
waning  with  the  weariness  of  ashen  age. 
Then  he  set  a  chair  between  the  light  and 
the  heat,  and  gathering  up  his  heap  of 
newspapers  he  sat  down.  He  broke  the 
wrappers  and  arranged  the  papers  in 
Order ;  they  were  a  week's  issue  of  the 
Gotham  Gazette,  for  it  was  by  taking  a  New 
York  daily  journal  that  he  kept  touch  of 
the  world.  He  began  to  read  the  earliest 
in  date,  in  which  the  freshest  news  was 


MEMORIES  19 

then  a  fortnight  stale.  Rumors  of  wars 
there  were  a  plenty,  and  the  young  soldier, 
immured  in  a  wooden  house  in  a  vast  lone- 
liness, was  almost  ready  to  wish  himself  a 
Russian  that  his  blood  might  be  tingling 
with  the  ardor  of  impending  battle.  There 
followed  an  account  of  a  grand  ball  in 
London,  and  a  description  of  a  new  play 
in  Paris  ;  but  for  Robert  Douglas  these 
items  of  intelligence  lacked  interest.  Yet 
with  the  persistence  of  one  whose  reading 
matter  is  rationed,  he  perused  diligently 
the  long  column  of  cable  despatches  from 
Europe.  Suddenly,  as  he  read,  his  face 
flushed,  and  then  blanched.  His  grasp 
on  the  paper  tightened  and  his  eyes 
travelled  swiftly  till  he  came  to  the  end  of 
the  paragraph.  Then  an  unconscious  sigh 
broke  from  him.  He  lowered  the  news- 
paper and  sat  still,  staring  at  the  blank 
wall  before  him. 

Outside,  the  blizzard  blew  with  untiring 
swiftness,  but  the  thoughts  of  the  lonely 


20  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

man  within  were  quicker  yet.  These  bore 
him  far  away,  across  time  and  space,  back 
to  his  childhood.  He  saw  himself  again  a 
boy  of  ten,  passing  his  grievous  first  day 
at  a  military  academy  in  a  little  town  in 
New  York,  on  the  banks  of  the  Hudson. 
It  was  a  winter  morning  and  there  was 
snow  in  the  air  when  he  was  brought  be- 
fore the  principal,  an  old  West  Pointer, 


MEMORIES  21 

kindly  in  intent,  strict  in  discipline.  On 
the  principal's  knee  sat  a  little  girl,  his 
niece,  a  year  or  two  older  than  the  new- 
comer. Bright  golden  hair  fell  in  ring- 
lets about  her  beautiful  head,  and  she 
had  a  bright  smile  for  the  diffident  boy. 
The  scene  arose  before  him  again,  and  he 
knew  that  his  life  had  been  changed  by 
that  smile.  Without  an  effort  he  recalled 
all  the  incidents  of  his  first  few  months 
at  boarding-school.  He  saw  the  house  it- 
self with  the  right-angled  piazza.,  and  the 
huge  snow-heap  in  the  bend  below,  fallen 
from  the  two  roofs  meeting  above  it— a 
snow  -  heap  into  which  he  had  suddenly 
been  tossed,  neck  and  crop,  as  he  came 
out  on  the  piazza  during  the  recess  of 
that  first  day  at  school  —  a  snow  -  heap 
from  the  feathery  mass  of  which  he  had 
to  flounder  as  best  he  could  though  it 
rose  high  above  his  head.  He  saw  again, 
as  plainly  as  though  a  score  of  years  had 
not  parsed,  the  level  parade-ground  where 


22  STORIES    OF    THE   ARMY 

the  boys  built  an  Eskimo  hut  out  of  snow, 
a  regular  igloo,  with  its  tunnel-like  en- 
trance through  which  they  crawled  on 
hands  and  knees  to  crouch  around  the  fire 
within  to  eat  doughnuts  and  crullers  and 
other  Dutch  goodies.  He  saw  again  the 
long  hill  down  which  the  boys  "went 
belly-whoppers,"  coasting  into  the  village. 
He  saw  the  shop,  half-way  down,  where 
one  might  buy  the  surreptitious  dime 
novel  in  its  yellow  cover  with  the  figure  of 
ati  Indian  on  the  warpath,  and  where  only 
might  be  procured  a  certain  sort  of  lolli- 
pop, an  •  unforgetable  joy  of  boyhood 
never  elsewhere  discoverable — saccharine 
globes,  brown  and  striped,  and  impaled, 
three  or  four  of  them,  on  the  branches  of  a 
sassafras  twig.  He  saw  again  the  frozen 
pond  in  the  woods  where  he  first  skated. 
He  heard  again  the  sharp  roll  of  the  drum 
which  aroused  half  a  hundred  youths  to 
breakfast  before  their  sleep  was  half  com- 
plete. He  felt  again  the  blows  he  took 


MEMORIES  23 

and  gave  in  the  weekly  fights  in  which 
the  larger  boys  made  the  younger  engage 
every  Sunday  morning  under  the  gallery 
of  the  gymnasium,  during  the  long  dull 
interval  between  breakfast  and  church. 
But  what  he  could  most  readily  recall 
was  the  little  girl,  dark-eyed  and  golden- 
haired,  imperious  and  roguish,  adored  by 
all  the  boys,  petted  by  all,  and  joining  in 
their  gentler  sports  once  in  a  while.  Was 
it  not  on  his  sled  that  she  had  been  pulled 
to  the  top  of  the  hill  ?  Was  it  not  with 
him  that  she  had  coasted  more  often  than 
with  any  other  lad  ? 

Then.the  winter  went,  and  summer  came 
and  was  gone,  and  another  winter  also ; 
and  as  Robert  Douglas  sat  silent  and  star- 
ing, the  memory  of  yet  another  summer 
passed  him,  and  again  he  felt  the  heat  of 
that  Fourth-of-July  morning.  No  longer 
was  he  at  school  in  a  little  town  on  the 
Hudson — he  was  at  Saratoga,  in  the  am- 
ple park  of  an  old  hotel  since  burnt  to 


24  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

the  ground.  As  he  alighted  from  the 
train  and  came  forward  under  the  noble 
trees  which  arched  high  above  his  head, 
and  through  which  the  sun  played  in 
patches  on  the  cool  broad  paths,  he  found 
before  him,  just  within  the  wide  gates, 
the  little  girl  on  a  visit  there  to  her  aunt. 
He  was  turned  of  eleven  then,  and  she 
was  not  thirteen,  as  she  stood  before 
him  with  the  sunlight  sifting  through  the 
branches  and  gilding  the  refined  gold  of 
her  hair.  His  cheeks  flamed  again  as  he 
remembered  the  shy  hesitancy  with  which 
he  obeyed  her  aunt's  behest  and  kissed 
her.  The  little  maid  was  haughty  even 
then,  and  she  knew  her  power  already  ; 
but  she  was  affable,  and  led  him  away  to 
show  him  over  the  grounds,  to  point  out 
the  tree  which  she  had  chosen  as  her  own 
and  to  share  his  torpedoes  and  fire- 
crackers. All  day  long  they  played  to- 
gether, making  many  a  delightful  ex- 
plosion— faint  echoes  only  of  the  mighty 


MEMORIES  25 

battle  which  had  been  a-fighting  in  the 
next  State  for  three  days.  Little  boy  as 
he  was,  the  news  from  the  field  of  Get- 
tysburg stirred  him,  as  despatch  after 
despatch  was  posted  on  the  door  of  the 
telegraph-office,  where  a  dense  ring  of  rest- 
less men  and  women  were  gathered,  eager 
even  for  the  wildest  rumors  ;  although  of 
course  he  did  not  then  know  that  the  tick- 
ing instrument  was  telling  the  fate  of  a 
nation.  When  night  settled  down  at  last, 
and  the  stars  came  out  after  he  and  Mir- 
iam had  played  together  all  day  joyously, 
there  was  good  news  from  the  front,  and 
cheer  after  cheer  broke  from  the  strained 
throats  of  the  throng.  Then  fireworks  of 
surpassing  splendor  were  set  off  in  the 
grounds  among  the  tall  trees.  A  youth- 
ful voice  from  the  piazza  started  the  stal- 
wart chant  of  "John  Brown's  Body,"  and 
it  was  taken  up  instantly  by  the  compact 
hundreds  of  men  and  women.  Conscious 
of  excitement  and  emboldened  by  the 


26  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

confusion  and  the  darkness,  he  tried  again 
to  kiss  the  little  girl,  but  she  slipped 
through  his  hands  and  slapped  his  face. 
As  the  man  sat  alone  in  his  quarters,  with 
the  newspaper  clinched  in  his  hand,  he 
felt  once  more  the  blow  which  had  fallen 
on  the  boy's  cheek.  It  was  a  sweet 
memory:  and  a  lad's  affection  feeds  on 
struggle  and  rebuff.  Douglas  knew  that 
his  love  for  Miriam  had  grown  with  the 
years,  as  the  boy  grew  to  be  a  youth. 

The  days  sped  and  the  months  ;  and  it 
was  years  before  Robert  and  Miriam  met 
again  in  friendly  intimacy.  They  were  in 
Rome ;  he  was  a  boy  of  fifteen,  tall  enough 
to  think  himself  well-nigh  a  man.  She  was 
almost  seventeen  ;  her  aunt's  friends  had 
ceased  calling  her  Miriam— she  was  now 
Miss  De  Ruyter.  She  had  been  a  very 
pretty  child  and  she  had  become  a  beauti- 
ful girl  ;  and  she  delighted  in  the  exercise 
of  her  power.  Toward  Douglas  her  de- 
meanor varied :  more  often  than  not  it 


was  as  imperious  as  might  become  a 
young  lady  who  tolerated  an  awkward 
boy.  Sometimes  she  gave  no  heed  to  him 
as  she  rode  her  pony  to  the  meet  on  the 
Campagna,  sitting  erect  in  her  saddle,  her 
lithe  figure  revealed  by  the  tight  black 
habit.  Sometimes  she  was  glad  to  have 
him  with  her,  and  the  two  young  Ameri- 
cans would  go  forth  together  to  see  the 
wonders  of  old  Rome,  rambling  through 
the  ruined  baths  of  Caracalla,  where  the 
broken  walls, 
steeped  in  wintry 
sunshine,  were 
joyous  with  the 
echoing  laughter 
of  unthinking 
youth  ;  or  clam- 
bering to  the  top 
of  the  mighty 
dome  of  St.  Pe- 
ter's, where  they 
brushed  against 


28  STORIES   OF  THE  ARMY 

Papal  Zouaves,  servants  of  the  church  mil- 
itant, and  heard  the  bugle-calls  of  the 
French  cavalry  who  were  there  to  protect 
the  person  of  Saint  Peter's  successor. 

The  last  day  of  the  carnival  was  her  last 
in  Rome  ;  it  was  Shrove-Tuesday  ;  and 
that  evening,  after  the  final  race  of  the 
riderless  horses  from  the  grand-stand  in 
the  Piazza  del  Popolo,  came  the  sport  of 
mocoletti.  The  Corso  was  dotted  with 
flaring  tapers,  which  came  and  went  like 
fire-flies.  The  game  was  to  puff  out  your 
neighbor's  while  keeping  your  own  alight. 
With  a  Yankee  boy's  ingenuity  Robert 
Douglas  had  made  ready  a  thin  rope, 
tipped  by  a  grapnel,  and  this  he  threw  up 
to  the  side  of  the  balcony  where  Miriam 
De  Ruyter  was  talking  with  old  Prince 
Castellamare.  Up  the  rope  he  climbed, 
hand  over  hand,  with  bis  tall  taper  stuck 
in  his  hat,  and  when  his  foot  was  firm  on 
the  rail  she  had  not  seen  him  yet.  A  light 
puff  of  his  breath  over  her  shoulder,  and 


her  candle  wa 
out.  She  turned 
with  a  start  —  and  he 
handed  her  his  taper  to 
replace  the  one  he  had 
extinguished.  Mrs.  De 
Ruyter  asked  him  to  join 
them,  and  from  the  high 
balcony  he  could  see  far  l«f  *B 
up  and  down  the  Corso  I  miil 
where  the  lights  were  ^'\  \ 

fewer   already  and   wan-  «  T  H 

ing  away.    The  moon  had       ~'~  I  <*^P 
risen,  and  it  flooded  the  f    ** 

street  wi\th  its  molten  silver.    Robert  heard 
the  old  Prince  tell  Mrs.  De  Ruyter  that  if 


30  STORIES    OF    THE   ARMY 

she  wished  ever  again  to  return  to  Rome 
she  must  go  that  night  to  the  Fountain  of 
Trevi  and  drink  of  the  running  water  by 
the  moonlight.  The  old  lady  asked  Rob- 
ert to  go  with  them ;  and  so  it  was  that 
the  boy,  who  was  not  yet  a  man,  and  the 
girl,  who  was  almost  a  woman,  stood  side 
by  side  before  the  broad  basin  where  the 
fountain  of  promise  was  flashing  in  the 
moonbeams,  and  together  they  drank  the 
water  held  in  the  hollow  of  their  hands. 
It  was  then  that  he  had  said  to  her  with 
boyish  frankness,  "When  I  am  twenty- 
one,  of  course,  I  shall  ask  you  to  marry 
me."  She  turned  sharply  and  faced  him 
as  he  stood  before  her  in  the  moonlight 
by  the  trembling  water  ;  but  she  made  no 
reply.  The  enigmatic  look  she  gave  him 
he  could  never  forget,  and  for  years  he 
pondered  its  meaning  *n  vain.  Before  he 
could  speak  again,  her  aunt  called  her  and 
they  drove  back  to  the  hotel,  and  in  the 
morning  she  was  gone.  As  Robert  Doug- 


MEMORIES  31 

las  recalled  every  incident  of  that  happy 
evening  of  youth  and  hope,  he  thought 
that  for  one  of  them  at  least  the  promise 
of  the  Fountain  of  Trevi  had  been  kept  ; 
although  he  knew  he  should  never  return 
to  Rome  she  had  gone  back  again  to  the 
Eternal  City,  for  joy  and  for  sorrow  and 
for  the  last  time. 

It  was  in  Paris  that  Robert  Douglas 
next  met  Miriam — it  was  in  Paris,  on  the 
day  when  the  empty  empire  came  to 
nought — on  the  evening  of  September  4, 
1870.  He  was  standing  idle  and  impas- 
sive in  the  Place  Vendome,  where  the  col- 
umn of  the  great  Napoleon  towered  high 
over  the  mob  which  had  just  spurned  forth 
Napoleon  the  Little,  when  he  was  swept 
along  by  the  tumult  of  men  and  boys,  arm 
in  arm,  harshly  chanting  the  "  Marseil- 
laise," and  exultingly  shouting  forth  the 
chorus*  of  a  popular  song  of  the  hour,  "  Si 
c'est  de  la  canaille,  eh  bien,  j'en  suis !  " 
In  the  main  the  mob  was  good-natured 


32  STORIES   OF    THE   ARMY 

enough,  although  the  ground-swell  of 
brutal  destruction  was  to  be  detected 
even  then.  After  nightfall  he  stepped  al- 
most into  the  midst  of  a  band  of  singers 
on  the  Boulevard  Montmartre,  rougher 
than  most  of  those  that  had  gone  before, 
and  more  boisterous.  The  men  in  blouses 
were  swarming  about  an  open  carriage  in 
which  sat  a  frightened  old  woman  and  a 
girl  as  calm  as  she  was  beautiful.  Robert 
knew  them  at  a  glance,  and  he  sprang  for- 
ward to  the  wheel  of  the  vehicle.  "  Criez 
done  'Vive  la  Republique ! '"  yelled  a 
hoarse-throated  and  bulky  brute  almost 
in  the  old  lady's  ear.  She  sank  back  on 
the  cushions,  trembling  violently  and  with 
her  hands  raised  to  her  head.  "  Mais, 
certainement !  "  cried  Robert,  jumping  on 
the  step  of  the  carriage  ;  "  we  are  friends 
of  France — we  are  Americans  of  the 
United  States— Vive  la  Republique!" 
Then  he  gave  the  driver  a  sharp  word  of 
command,  and  as  the  crowd  shouted  in 


MEMORIES  33 

response  to  his  cry,  the  horses  plunged 
ahead  and  they  were  clear  of  the  throng. 
In  a  moment  more  they  turned  into  the 
peace  and  quiet  of  a  side  street.  Mrs.  De 
Ruyter  was  profuse  and  incoherent  in  her 
thanks.  Miriam  held  out  her  hand,  and  the 
pressure  of  her  fingers  tingled  to  his  heart. 
"The  curs!"  she  said;  "they  did  not 
dare  to  rise  against  the  Emperor  until  he 
was  defeated  by  the  Germans."  All  day 
had  Douglas  been  rejoicing  at  the  down- 
fall of  the  crowned  impostor,  but  none  the 
less  did  he  feel  the  heat  of  this  speech. 
Miriam  had  shown  no  sign  of  trepidation 
when  the  violent  ruffians  were  surging 
about  the  carriage.  With  perfect  self- 
possession  she  had  been  trying  vainly  to 
sustain  her  aunt  and  to  transfer  to  the  old 
lady  a  little  of  her  own  fire  and  strength. 
Now,  as  she  spoke,  there  came  into  her 
face  a^  look  of  regal  scorn  ;  she  had  an  ex- 
pression like  that  of  the  fair  aristocrats  as 
they  were  going  to  the  guillotine  in  1793. 


34  STORIES   OF  THE  ARMY 

Two  days  later  Robert  Douglas  aided 
Mrs.  De  Ruyter  and  her  niece  to  quit 
Paris,  and  he  went  with  them  on  one  of 
the  last  trains  to  leave  the  unfortunate 
city  before  it  was  beleaguered  by  the 
Prussians.  Since  then  he  had  not  seen 
Miriam  at  all — and  only  twice  had  he 
heard  from  her.  When  his  father,  too 
feeble  to  battle  longer  with  misfortune, 
gave  up  the  struggle  and  laid  him 
down  and  died,  she  wrote  him  first,  from 
London ;  and  hers  was  no  barren  epistle 
of  condolence,  but  a  womanly  letter,  full 
of  feeling,  abounding  with  sympathy. 
She  clasped  his  hand  across  the  Atlantic. 
There  was  a  frankness  about  the  letter 
which  was  almost  affectionate.  The  words 
were  simple,  but  behind  them  there  was 
almost  an  invitation  to  speak  out.  Then, 
at  least,  Robert  had  no  wight  to  speak — so 
he  thought.  He  was  poor,  and  there  were 
debts  that  he  must  pay  by  his  labor.  She 
was  rich,  and  used  to  the  society  of  dukes 


MEMORIES  35 

and  princes.  He  felt  that  it  would  be 
wrong  and  selfish  for  him  to  ask  her  to 
share  his  garret  and  his  crust.  If  fortune 
should  smile  on  him,  as  he  was  determined 
that  it  must,  then  he  would  speak  out  and 
empty  his  heart  and  lay  bare  his  soul 
before  her.  They  were  young — he  was 
barely  twenty-three  ;  they  could  wait — 
they  must  wait.  At  that  time  it  was  sim- 
ply impossible  for  him  to  say  a  word.  So 
he  held  his  peace  ;  he  answered  her  letter, 
and  there  the  correspondence  rested. 

For  a  year  or  two  he  did  not  hear  from 
her  again,  but  he  heard  about  her  unceas- 
ingly. The  newspapers  were  frequent  in 
praise  of  her  beauty,  and  they  were  loud 
in  reporting  her  success  in  English  so- 
ciety. London  correspondents  of  the 
American  newspapers  gave  brilliant  pen- 
portraits  of  her.  Her  photographs,  even, 
were  to  be  purchased  at  a  shop  in  Broad- 
way ;  Robert  Douglas,  seeing  one  in  the 
window,  had  gone  in  indignantly  and 


36  STORIES   OF  THE  ARMY 

bought  them  all.  One  Sunday  morning  a 
cable-message  in  the  Gotham  Gazette  an- 
nounced that  she  was  to  marry  an  English 
duke:  then  Robert  came  near  writing 
again.  But  before  he  had  made  up  his  mind 
there  followed  an  authoritative  denial 
After  all,  he  asked  himself,  what  warrant 
had  he  to  question  ?  He  had  no  home  to 
offer  her.  His  struggles  were  as  hard  as 
ever,  and  they  were  no  nearer  a  triumph- 
ant termination.  His  heart  was  full  of 
her  ;  he  could  recall  every  word  of  their 
brief  interviews  in  the  past  ten  years  ;  she 
beamed  on  him  at  the  end  of  his  vista  of 
hope.  But  he  said  nothing — there  was 
nothing  for  him  to  say. 

Then,  suddenly,  one  summer  day, 
there  came  the  announcement  of  her  ap- 
proaching marriage  to  the  young  Prince 
Castellamare,  the  eldesf  s'on  of  the  Prince 
Castellamare  with  whom  she  had  been 
talking  on  the  balcony  of  the  Corso  on 
the  night  of  Shrove-Tuesday,  1867,  when 


MEMORIES  37 

Robert  Douglas  climbed  up  to  blow  out 
her  taper  and  to  offer  her  his  own.  As  he 
sat  silent  in  his  quarters  in  the  fort  in 
the  Far  West,  with  the  storm  wailing  out- 
side, he  remembered  his  effort  to  disbe- 
lieve this  rumor  and  to  expect  that  it 
would  be  denied  like  its  predecessors. 
But  by  the  chill  in  his  heart  he  knew  bet- 
ter. Hope  stiffened  and  froze,  as  private 
letters  to  friends  in  New  York  from  friends 
in  Europe  soon  confirmed  the  public  re- 
port. The  day  when  Robert  first  felt  the 
conviction  of  the  truth  of  the  announce- 
ment he  could  not  forget — it  was  a  day  of 
torrid  heat  in  the  very  centre  of  a  New 
York  mid-summer,  yet  he  shivered  and 
his  skin  shrank  as  no  mid-winter  blizzard 
in  the  West  had  ever  affected  him  since. 
And  he  burned  also  on  that  day  as  Sahara 
would  not  scorch  him ;  and  he  reeled 
under  the  blow  like  a  man  with  a  sun- 
stroke. By  that  time  he  had  paid  off  his 
father's  debts,  and  it  was  but  a  question 


38  STORIES  OF  THE  ARMY 

of  months  before  he  might  feel  the  ground 
firm  under  his  feet ;  all  at  once  the  earth 
trembled  under  him  and  opened  as  if 
to  swallow  him  up ;  of  a  sudden  his  in- 
centive was  gone ;  he  had  labored  for 
nought. 

The  newspapers  described  the  beauty 
of  the  American  bride  and  extolled  the 
lineage  of  the  Italian  bridegroom ;  it  was 
a  love-match,  they  said,  and  not  the  sordid 
bargain  in  which  the  woman's  money  was 
bartered  for  the  man's  title.  Prince  Cas- 
tellamare  was  as  wealthy  as  Miss  De 
Ruyter;  he  had  no  need  to  sell  himself; 
if  he  married  an  American  girl  it  was  be- 
cause he  loved  her.  And  if  she  married 
him,  no  doubt,  it  was  because  she  loved 
him  ;  she  had  had  offers  as  good  in  Eng- 
land and  in  Germany,  and  she  had  refused 
them  ;  she  had  chosen  "well,  they  said 
moreover,  for  the  prince  was  a  handsome 
fellow,  honest,  open-hearted,  and  charm- 
ing as  only  an  Italian  nobleman  may  be 


MEMORIES 


39 


nowadays.  In  due  season  the  wedding- 
day  was  fixed  and  the  date  was  tele- 
graphed under  the  Atlantic  to  America, 
with  detailed  descriptions  of  the  trous- 
seau and  the  corbeille,  Robert  Douglas 
sought  out  a  wedding  gift :  he  had  a 
jeweller  copy,  in  gold,  the  brass  button  of 
the  military  school  where  first  he  met  her, 
and  in  this  there  was  cunningly  contrived 
a  space  for  a  tiny  watch  of  exquisite 
workmanship.  He  sent  her  this  trinket 
with  a  brief  wish  for  her  happiness.  Then 
for  a  few  weeks  he  went  about  his  daily 
task  with  a  stab  at  his  heart  and  a  hatred 
of  each  day  as  it  dawned. 

A  fortnight  after  the  wedding  there 
came  a  letter  to  thank  him  for  the  gift, 
so  beautiful  and  so  aptly  chosen,  and  to 
tell  him  that  she  had  not  forgotten  her 
friends  in  America,  although  some  of  them 
had  almost  forgotten  her,  to  judge  by  their 
prolonged  silence.  In  conclusion,  she 
wrote  to  him  that,  should  he  ever  come  to 


40  STORIES    OF   THE   ARMY 

Rome,  she  would  be  very  glad  to  see  him 
— and  so  would  the  prince,  with  whom  she 
had  often  talked  about  Mr.  Douglas,  and 
who  knew  that  Robert  had  gone  with  her 
when  she  drank  of  the  waters  of  the  Foun- 
tain of  Trevi,  which  had  brought  her 
back  to  Rome. 

When  he  had  read  this  final  letter  an 
overwhelming  sense  of  loneliness  swept 
over  him.  The  light  had  gone  out  of  his 
life — the  hope  for  which  he  had  lived  was 
dead.  There  was  no  use  in  repining ;  a 
strong  man  does  not  die  of  a  broken  heart. 
Work  there  is  in  plenty  in  the  world 
for  a  man  to  do,  if  he  be  but  willing.  A 
chance  came  in  his  way  to  steady  employ- 
ment at  hard  labor  with  the  risk  of  death 
— and  he  snatched  at  it  greedily.  The 
President  of  the  United  States  had  just 
then  the  right  to  appoint  a  certain  number 
of  extra  second  lieutenants,  and  by  the 
aid  of  an  old  friend  of  his  father's,  who 
was  also  an  old  friend  of  the  President's, 


MEMORIES  41 

Robert  Douglas  secured  one  of  the  com- 
missions. That  was  why  this  Christmas 
found  him  at  Fort  Roosevelt,  on  the  plains, 
in  a  blizzard.  And  these  were  the  memo- 
ries that  passed  before  him  as  he  sat  in 
front  of  the  fire,  upright  and  rigid. 

At  last  he  raised  the  newspaper,  still 
clinched  tightly  in  his  fingers,  and  again 
he  read  the  paragraph.  It  was  a  tele- 
gram from  Rome,  and  it  told  the  startling 
shock  given  to  Italian  society  by  the 
sudden  death  of  the  young  Princess  Cas- 
tellamare,  formerly  Miss  Miriam  De 
Ruyter,  of  New  York,  one  of  the  many 
noted  beauties  of  the  New  World  who  had 
married  nobles  of  the  Old  World.  The 
telegram  continued  with  the  assertion  that 
the  match  between  Miss  de  Ruyter  and 
Prince  Castellamare  had  turned  out  more 
happily  than  most  of  the  international  al- 
liances between  youth  and  beauty  on  one 
side,  and  an  old  title  on  the  other.  The 
Prince  and  Princess  were  notoriously  de- 


42  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

voted  to  each  other.  The  Prince  is  now 
inconsolable.  The  Princess  died  very  un- 
expectedly. She  had  been  ailing  a  little 
for  a  day  or  two,  but  she  persisted  in  go- 
ing to  the  costume  ball  at  the  Quirinal, 
where  she  represented  "America,"  re- 
splendent with  diamonds  and  radiant  with 
youth  and  beauty.  She  was  forced  to  go 
home  before  the  ball  was  over — and  in 
less  than  twenty-four  hours  she  lay  cold  in 
death.  She  left  no  child.  Her  memory 
will  be  pleasantly  cherished  in  the  Ameri- 
can colony  in  Rome,  where  there  is  abun- 
dant testimony  to  her  untiring  affability 
and  to  her  unfailing  generosity. 

When  Robert  Douglas  had  finished  re- 
reading this  paragraph  of  the  cable  de- 
spatch he  drew  a  long  breath.  Then  he 
folded  the  newspaper  carefully.  For  a 
moment  he  sat  with  trie  flat  roll  in  his 
hand.  At  last  he  arose  and  walked  to 
a  corner  in  the  room  where  a  travelling- 
desk  lay  on  the  top  of  a  rough  board 


MEMORIES  43 

table.  Lifting  the  lid  of  the  desk,  he  put 
away  the  newspaper  by  the  side  of  a 
little  bundle  of  letters  and  a  packet  of 
photographs.  Then  he  turned  away  and 
stood  by  the  window  looking  out  into  the 
welter  of  the  tempest.  The  mournful 
moan  of  the  wind  sounded  in  his  ears  like 
a  solemn  requiem.  The  house  shook  with 
the  stress  of  the  storm  and  he  rejoiced 
at  it.  This  war  of  the  elements  was  in 
consonance  with  his  feelings. 

How  long  he  stood  there  at  the  window 
staring  at  the  storm  and  marvelling  at  its 
might — if,  indeed,  he  saw  it  at  all — he  did 
not  know.  But  he  was  roused  from  his 
reverie  by  the  sudden  inroad  of  the  com- 
rade who  shared  his  quarters. 

Asx  Paulding  Van  Dyke  broke  into  the 
room  he  cried : 

"  If  that  tenderfoot  who  didn't  know  the 
difference  between  a  Montana  chinook 
and  a  Dakota  blizzard  were  here  now  he 
would  find  out  to-day,  pretty  dern  quick !  " 


44  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

Robert  Douglas  turned  slowly,  like  one 
awakened  from  sleep. 

"Are  you  ready?"  Van  Dyke  asked, 
hurriedly. 

"  Ready  for  what?"  inquired  Douglas. 

"Don't  you  know?"  returned  Van 
Dyke.  "Two  of  Pike  County  Pete's 
kids  are  out  somewhere  in  the  storm.  We 
must  get  them  in  at  once,  or  the  poor  little 
devils  may  be  frozen  to  death." 

"How  do  you  know  they  are  lost  ?" 
was  the   question  Douglas  asked,  as  he 
put  on  his  heavy  overcoat  and  placed  a 
flask  of  brandy  in  one  of  its  pockets. 

"The  man  you  sent  down  to  the  cabin 
this  morning  with  those  things  you  offered, 
when  Lucy  told  you  about  the  scantiness 
of  their  supplies " 

"  George  Gordon?  " 

"  Yes — he's  just  back  no*w.  It  has  taken 
him  two  hours  to  get  here  through  the 
blizzard.  And  he  brings  word  that  Pike 
County  Pete's  old  woman  is  almost  wild 


MEMORIES  45 

with  fear  because  the  two  kids  strayed 
out  before  the  storm  began " 

"Then  there's  no  time  to  lose,"  Douglas 
interrupted.  ' '  Have  you  called  the  men  ?  " 

"  I  asked  for  volunteers,  and  there  will 
be  a  dozen  or  more  of  the  boys  ready 
as  soon  as  we  are.  I  told  them  to  get 
on  all  their  extra  coats— this  blizzard  cuts 
like  a  sand-blast." 

Robert  Douglas  opened  the  case  of  a 
compass,  examined  it  hastily  and  then  put 
it  in  the  pocket  of  his  great-coat.  He 
lighted  two  lanterns  and  gave  one  to  Van 
Dyke.  From  the  wall  he  took  down  a 
coil  of  rope,  a  hundred  feet  long,  with  a 
loop  at  every  ten  feet. 

Then  Douglas  and  Van  Dyke  passed 
out  into  the  quadrangle,  where  they  found 
a  group  of  soldiers  awaiting  them.  The 
officers  chose  nine  men.  Taking  the  oppo- 
site ends  of  the  rope  themselves,  they  bade 
the  nine  men  each  take  a  loop.  Thus  fast- 
ened together  in  a  line  a  hundred  feet 


long,  so  that  they  might  sweep  the  plain, 
they  went  forth  into  the  night  to  rescue 
two  little  children. 

And  as  they  left  the  fort  behind  them, 
and  bore  down  toward  the  bank  of  the 
river,  the  storm  howled  and  roared  like 
a  strange  wild  beast  starved  and  resist- 
less with  hunger. 


A  CHARGE  FOR  FRANCE 

BY  JOHN  HEARD,  JR. 
With  Illustrations  by  L.  Marchetti 


I. 


DURING  his  stay  in  the  United  States 
Maurice  de  Saint  Brissac  was  a  great 
favorite  among  women  ;  among  men  he 
was  correspondingly  disliked.  The  for- 
mer believed  that  the  mask  represented 
the  man,  a  kind  of  man  they  did  not  often 
meet  among  homespun  Americans,  and 
to  the  more  romantic  he  seemed  to  be 
a  grand  seigneur  of  the  race  Vandyck 
painted  so  well,  and  who  had  stepped 
down  from  his  frame  in  some  national 
gallery  to  criticise  the  progress  of  the 
world  since  his  day.  The  latter  envied 
his  success,  and,  because  of  it,  resented 
the  superiority  evinced  in  many  ways  by 
this  man  who  was  so  different  from  them- 
selves. In  a  way  it  soothed  their  wounded 


50  STORIES   OF   THE   ARMY 

pride  to  call  him  a  prig.  But  he  was  bet- 
ter than  that.  He  did  not  believe  in  the 
stage  business  of  his  time.  It  was  anti- 
quated and  often  ridiculous.  It  was 
insincere.  It  was  very  largely  "pose." 
At  the  same  time  family  traditions,  the 
"  honor  of  the  name,"  the  prestige  of  no- 
bility, combined  with  wealth,  demanded 
this  sacrifice,  against  which  all  the  finer 
instincts  of  the  man  rebelled.  For  Saint 
Brissac  was  a  good  man,  as  good  men  go 
nowadays,  and  a  good  deal  of  a  man. 
Had  he  belonged  to  the  family  of  Smith, 
Jones,  or  Robinson,  and  been  compelled 
to  work  for  his  living,  he  might  have 
achieved  even  more  than  were  enough  to 
satisfy  himself,  and  make  him  one  of  the 
few  Smiths,  Joneses,  or  Robinsons  whose 
success  has  proved  an  incentive  to  sub- 
sequent generations  of*  that  name.  Un- 
fortunately he  was  reared  as  a  hot-house 
plant,  and  he  respected  the  responsibili- 
ties of  his  position  too  highly  to  sacrifice 


A   CHARGE   FOR   FRANCE  51 

them  to  a  better  sense  of  right  and  wrong, 
inherited,  at  second  hand,  from  a  New- 
England  grandmother.  Indeed  there  was 
in  his  composition  just  enough  of  the  old 
Puritan  granite  to  leaven  the  enjoyment 
which  might  have  followed  his  apparently 
easy  successes  in  more  than  one  field. 

The  life  of  such  men  is  certainly  not  an 
enviable  one.  Their  ego  counts  for  naught 
until  they  are  released  from  the  bondage 
of  training,  and  then  it  is  too  late  for  the 
natural  and  healthy  development  of  the 
man  that  might  have  been.  Saint  Bris- 
sac's  father  admired  the  type  of  which  M. 
de  Camors  is  the  literary  exponent,  and, 
coute  que  coute,  his  son  should  be  such  a 
parfait  gentilhomme. 

Maurice  was  nearly  twenty-two  when 
the  old  gentleman  retired  from  this  stage, 
and  the  prison-door  was  open.  He  looked 
out,  and  to  his  amazement  looked  out 
upon  a  world  of  men  and  women — a 
species  to  which  he  would  fain  belong, 


52  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

yet  one  whose  life  was  incompatible  with 
his  training. 

"It  is  a  crime,"  he  said  to  himself; 
"  and  I  feel  like  a  Chinese  woman  whose 
feet  have  been  so  long  compressed  that  she 
cannot  walk.  I  have  been  brought  up  for 
a  world  that  ceased  to  exist  in  '89.  Shall 
I  go  on  ?  Can  I  go  back?  " 

In  his  milieu  it  was  impossible  to  go 
back,  so  he  drifted  along,  taking  infinite 
pains  to  accomplish,  in  the  most  correct 
manner,  many  things  which  he  despised. 
It  was  nineteenth  century  to  be  bad,  and 
he  made  people  believe  that  he  was  bad. 
After  his  emancipation  he  travelled 
through  Europe  and  learned  something, 
viz. ,  that  the  perfection  at  which  his  father 
aimed,  and  to  which  he  had  endeavored  to 
educate  his  son,  was  a  very  second-rate 
perfection,  entirely  out  of  date,  and  more 
often  to  be  condemned  than  praised.  One 
day  this  conviction  became  enough  of  a 
certainty  to  warrant  immediate  action. 


A   CHARGE   FOR    FRANCE  53 

Several  young  men  were  writing  a  col- 
lective letter  of  invitation  at  the  club, 
and  there  arose  some  slight  discussion 
as  to  the  use  of  the  subjunctive. 

"  I  may  be  wrong,  trdscher,"  said  his 
contestant,  "  but  Musset's  apology  is 
good  enough  for  me.  A  gentleman  should 
never  write  French  well  enough  to  be  mis- 
taken for  a  professional " 

"Our  code  of  honor  is  written  in 
French,"  retorted  Saint  Brissac.  "  Per- 
haps you  think  a  gentleman  has  the  same 
inherited  privilege  of  ignorance  in  that 
field." 

"The  grammar  of  honor  is  written  in 
blood,  not  in  ink.  Heraldry,  sir,  is  a  fine 
science,"  replied  his  opponent. 

"  Then,  if  it  meet  your  pleasure,"  Saint 
Brissac  answered,  bowing  low,  "  we  will 
compare  arms  on  a  field  vert,  under  a 
bend  azur." 

"  What  nonsense,  what  nonsense  !  "  he 
said  to  himself,  as  he  left  the  club.  "  And 


54  STORIES   OF  THE  ARMY 

to  think  that  for  such  absolute  inanities 
two  human  beings  must  stand  against  one 
another,  sword  in  hand,  and  each  en- 
deavor, as  a  duty,  to  cut  the  other's  throat. 
Pshaw ! " 

The  next  step  was  obvious,  with  the 
result  that  Saint  Brissac,  though  one  of 
the  best  swordsmen  in  Paris,  blundered 
to  the  extent  of  fatally  wounding  his  ad- 
versary. Publicly  he  could  not  afford  to 
be  more  than  annoyed  at  his  careless- 
ness; at  bottom,  however,  he  was  sin- 
cerely grieved,  and  made  a  vow  never 
again  to  use  weapons  except  in  self-de- 
fence or  in  the  service  of  his  country ;  and 
he  then  resolved  to  visit  America,  where  a 
discussion  about  spelling  did  not  neces- 
sarily involve  a  funeral. 

At  the  club,  as  in  society,  the  decision 
was  received  with  consternation.  Maurice 
made  pretty  speeches ;  the  Figaro  re- 
peated them  and  quoted  the  admiring 
answers  and  comments  of  that  exceed- 


A   CHARGE   FOR   FRANCE  55 

ingly  self-complacent  coterie  commonly 
called  Tout  Paris,  an  epithet  which,  in 
their  ignorance  of  foreign  idioms,  they 
fondly  believe  to  mean  the  whole  intel- 
lectual world.  There  were  farewell  din- 
ners of  course  ;  the  most  brilliant  being 
that  given  by  the  Junior  Jockey,  where 
Saint  Brissac  made  his  last  and  best 
speech.  To  an  audience  of  a  certain  char- 
acter the  occasion  was  an  impressive  one. 
The  majority  of  the  guests  still  thought 
of  America  as  their  ancestors  had  thought 
of  Louisiana,  and  to  them  Saint  Bris- 
sac was  a  modern  La  Salle.  They  toast- 
ed him,  bespeeched  him,  cheered  him, 
mourned  him  ;  and  so  prone  are  we  to  al- 
low our  desires  the  gratification  of  prettily 
worded  well-wishes  run  amuck,  that  he  was 
really  moved,  despite  the  more  sane  criti- 
cism of  his  reason.  He  went  away  early, 
and  one  of  the  guests  of  the  evening,  a 
young  American,  named  Joe  Sargent, 
overtook  him  on  the  stairs.  The  men 


56  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

knew  each  other  slightly,  and  sauntered 
together  down  the  rue  de  Rivoli. 

"  Ah  !  my  dear  friend,"  the  Frenchman 
said,  with  a  sigh,  "  it  is  very  hard  to  say 
good-by  without  showing  one's  emo- 
tions !  " 

There  was  an  amused  look  in  Sargent's 
eyes,  and  for  a  moment  he  checked  him- 
self. Then  turning  suddenly,  as  though 
the  temptation  were  too  great  to  resist : 

"  I  should  think  so,"  he  answered,  smil- 
ing. "  But  it  seems  impossible  to  do  so 
without  creating  the  impression  of  being 
either  a  damned  fool  or  a  humbug — at 
least  according  to  our  ideas." 

Saint  Brissac  stopped  and  looked  up 
with  a  puzzled  frown  into  the  honest, 
laughing  face  a  few  inches  above  his  own. 

"  Well,"  he  said,  after  a  pause,  and 
holding  out  his  hand,  '"if  is  a  new  sen- 
sation to  have  the  truth  told  one  in  that 
way  ;  but  I  believe  you  meant  it  right. 
Indeed  I  believe  you  are  right.  I  am 


A   CHARGE   FOR   FRANCE  57 

going  to  your  country,  and  it  is  well  I 
should  become  accustomed  to  your  ways. 
I  suppose,"  he  continued,  interrogatively, 
"  that  I  shall  often  hear  the  truth  as  frank- 
ly expressed?  " 

"  Why,"  Sargent  replied,  laughing,  "  if 
you  are  going  to  the  Rocky  Mountains,  as 
you  said  this  evening,  you  will  probably 
hear  plenty  of  plain  talk — if  that's  what 
you  mean.  I  am  on  my  way  there  myself 
for  a  couple  of  months'  shooting,"  he 
added,  after  a  few  reflective  puffs  at  his 
cigar.  "Won't  you  join  our  party?  I 
might  put  you  up  to  a  thing  or  two — and, 
frankly,  I  think  you  need  it." 

To  all  outward  appearances  two  more 
dissimilar  men  never  shook  hands,  yet  this 
dissimilarity  was  largely  one  of  manner. 
At  bottom  they  had  much  in  common. 
Both  were  men  ;  both  were  gentlemen, 
and  both  believed  that  whatever  a  gentle- 
man attempted  he  should  carry  out  well, 
and  without  evident  effort.  There  was 


58  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

much  in  the  behavior  of  the  one  that  as- 
tonished the  other  and  delighted  his  sense 
of  humor.  But,  after  all,  if  the  Saxon  did 
occasionally  laugh  at  the  Latin,  and  vice 
versa,  they  were  merely  doing  as  individ- 
uals what  their  respective  races  had  done 
for  centuries,  and  this  did  not  in  any  way 
prevent  them  from  becoming  close  friends 
as  they  came  to  know  each  other  better. 

II. 

A  YEAR  later,  in  July,  1870,  Joe  Sar- 
gent was  seated  before  the  black,  empty 
fireplace  in  his  New  York  rooms,  gloomily 
pulling  at  his  pipe.  The  last  comic  papers 
and  a  couple  of  railroad  novels  littered  the 
floor  around  his  chair,  and  before  him  a 
large  map  of  Mexico,  half  on  his  knees, 
half  on  the  carpet,  concealed  a  pile  of 
crumpled  papers — chiefly  notes  written  on 
dainty  sheets  of  various  tints.  It  was  dusk 
already,  and  through  the  open  screened 


A  CHARGE   FOR   FRANCE  59 

windows  the  vulgar  noises  of  the  city  came 
up  more  softly,  in  jerks,  like  the  last  lap- 
ping of  an  ebb-tide  ;  for  the  hours  of  busi- 
ness were  over,  and  the  city  business  of 
pleasure  is  dull  at  midsummer. 

In  the  square  below,  an  Italian  organ- 
grinder  was  massacring  "  Santa  Lucia" 
for  the  twentieth  time,  and  a  weary,  per- 
functory sort  of  an  execution  it  was.  But 
of  all  this  Sargent  was  oblivious,  as  he 
had  been  of  the  more  angry,  irritating, 
noon-day  street  sounds  ;  and  he  continued 
to  pull  at  his  brier  mechanically,  as  though 
it  were  still  alight.  In  his  left  hand,  that 
hung  over  the  arm  of  the  chair,  he  held  a 
flat,  Russia-leather  case,  perhaps  a  photo- 
graph-frame, which  he  quietly  slipped  into 
his  pocket  as  his  bell  rang. 

"  Come  in  !  "  he  cried  out,  jumping  up 
and  moving  a  few  steps  toward  the  door. 
"Ah!  Maurice,  is  it  you?  I  am  glad  to 
see  you." 

"  Ce  cher  Joe!"  the   other   answered, 


60  STORIES    OF   THE  ARMY 

running  up  and  embracing  him.  "  I  have 
only  just  arrived  in  town,  this  noon  in 
fact,  and  heard  at  the  club  that  you  were 
here.  I  came  at  once,  as  you  see  ;  to  say 
bonjour  first,  amuse  you  for  half  an  hour, 
and  bid  you  good  -  by  —  probably  for- 
ever. " 

"  Probably  forever  ?  " 

"Yes;  Napoleon  has  declared  war 
against  Bismarck ;  the  news  is  not  known 
yet,  but  I  have  been  privately  advised, 
and  sail  by  the  next  steamer.  Joe,  what 
I  am  going  to  say  will  sound  very  foolish, 
even  unmanly,  to  you.  I  know  that  a 
great  many  men  come  back  from  the  war, 
but  not  as  many  as  go  into  it — except  per- 
haps on  the  pension-lists ;  and  I  have  a 
feeling  that  I  shall  be  buried  on  my  first 
battle-field.  Don't  laugh  at  me  for  the 
presentiment  Under  othe"r  circumstances 
I  know  it  would  not  sound  well.  But 
father  and  son  for  many  generations,  in 
fact,  from  Agincourt  to  Inkermann,  every 


A   CHARGE    FOR    FRANCE  6l 

Saint  Brissac  has  died  in  the  field — gen- 
erally in  his  first  engagement,  always  in  his 
first  campaign." 

"  Well,  that's  a  fine  record,"  hjs  friend 
interrupted.  "  Dulce  et  decorum,  .  ." 

"  To  be  sure!  "  the  other  answered,  in 
his  usual  trenchant  way.  "It  is  an  emi- 
nently correct  sentiment,  and  proves  that 
the  gay  poet  was  a  gentleman  as  well  as  a 
philosopher.  Give  me  a  cigar,  will  you, 
Joe?  To  tell  you  the  honest  truth,  man 
ami,"  he  continued,  after  a  short  pause, 
and  walking  slowly  from  one  end  of  the 
room  to  the  other,  "  I  am  more  deeply 
moved  by  the  news  of  this  war  than  I  can 
express  to  you  in  words.  I  have  lived  in 
Germany,  as  you  know,  and  have  looked 
into  their  military  resources  —  superfi- 
cially, of  course,  as  an  amateur  like  my- 
self naturally  would.  But  I  saw  enough 
to  make  me  feel  that  France  is  going  to 
be  overwhelmed  by  one  of  the  most  ap- 
palling disasters  ever  recorded  in  history. 


62  STORIES   OF   THE   ARMY 


It  is  that  conviction  that  takes  me  over 
there  ;  for,  it  goes  without  saying,  I  have 
no  great  sympathy  with  the  Bonapartists. 
We  owe  them  nothing.  But  France  will 
need  every  arm  in  the  Empire,  mine 
among  the  rest.  I  tell  you,  Joe,  this  dec- 
laration of  war  is  the  most  stupendous 
of  all  the  follies  that  have  distinguished 
this  glorious  Second  Empire.  It  is  Napo- 
leon le  Petit,  whose  glory  is  a  little  moon- 
shine reflected  from  the  sun  of  Austerlitz, 
against  Bismarck  the  Great.  I  wish  all 
Frenchmen  had  studied  and  remembered 
the  meaning  of  Sadowa  as  well  as  I  have ! 
However,  Joe,"  he  continued,  resuming 
his  lighter  manner,  "  all  this  interests  you 
only  as  an  outsider,  and  it  is  puerile  of 
me  to  talk  in  this  strain.  My  place  is  a 
horse's  length  ahead  of  my  men.  I  will 
not  say  good-by  now,  for  y6u  must  come 
and  see  me  off — day  after  to-morrow,  at 
ten  in  the  morning — the  Provence.  Au 
revoir,  then." 


A   CHARGE   FOR    FRANCE  63 

After  his  friend's  departure  Sargent 
lighted  another  pipe  and  sat  down  to 
think.  Once  or  twice  he  glanced  inquir- 
ingly at  the  little  leather  case,  but  without 
opening  it.  When  the  pipe  was  smoked 
out,  he  rose  with  a  jump,  swept  all  his 
letters  into  a  drawer,  threw  the  leather 
case  on  top  of  them  all,  and  turned  the 
key.  He  glanced  at  the  clock.  "  By 
Jove!"  he  exclaimed,  "after  nine.  I 
must  get  a  bite  of  something." 

At  the  club,  and  while  waiting  for  his 
dinner,  he  scribbled  down  memoranda  on 
the  back  of  the  bill  of  fare,  an  occupation 
which  he  kept  up  between  courses  and 
while  smoking  his  cigar  over  his  coffee. 
Someone  looked  in  at  the  door  and  called 
out  to  him. 

"Hello,  Sargent!  Will  you  join  us 
to-night?"  and  he  made  a  gesture  as 
though  dealing  cards. 

"  Come  over  here  a  minute,  Durand," 
he  answered.  "  No,  I  shall  not  join  you 


64  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

to-night.  I  have  lots  to  do.  But  I'll 
match  you  for  a  dollar. " 

The  coins  spun  and  Sargent  lost 

"  I  thought  so!  "  he  said  aloud  as  he 
stared  at  the  silver  piece.  "  Well,  Du- 
rand,  old  man,  the  devil  always  get  his 
due — one  way  or  another."  He  rose, 
slapped  him  on  the  shoulder  and  laughed 
bitterly  as  he  left  the  room  while  the  other 
said  to  himself : 

' '  I  never  saw  Sargent  drunk  before. 
Something  must  have  gone  wrong,  surely. 
I  wonder  what  it  was." 

A  few  hours  later  the  big  steamer  swung 
clear  of  the  dock,  and  Saint  Brissac  stood 
at  the  rail  scanning  the  line  of  waving 
handkerchiefs  through  his  single  eyeglass. 
Sargent  had  not  appeared,  and  his  friend 
felt  deeply  disappointed.  Joe  was  his 
only  American  friend — the  only  person  in 
fact  to  whom  he  had  confided  his  inten- 
tion of  sailing.  In  the  promiscuous  mob 
of  travellers  he  seemed  to  be  the  sole  one 


A   CHARGE   FOR   FRANCE  65 

whom  nobody  had  come  to  bid  "  God- 
speed," and  he  felt  both  lonely  and  de- 
pressed. 

They  were  in  mid-stream  now,  headed 
for  the  ocean,  and  the  Palisades  of  the 
Hudson,  half-screened  by  a  veil  of  golden 
mist,  receded  gradually  into  the  horizon. 
The  harbor,  alive  with  screaming  tugs 
and  ferry-boats,  looked  its  loveliest  The 
slow  quivering  of  the  floating  city,  freshly 
painted,  and  gleaming  red,  white,  black, 
and  gold,  in  the  wet  sunlight,  lulled  one 
agreeably  into  a  state  of  poetic  contem- 
plation. But  on  Saint  Brissac  these 
soothing  influences  were  lost,  and  he  said 
to  himself,  bitterly : 

"  C'est  toujours  la  meme  rengaine  / 
And  friendship  is  the  same  the  world  over 
— a  matter  of  convenience  or  opportunity 
— just  as  love  is  a  matter  of  juxtaposition. 
This  fellow  whom  .  .  ." 

Someone  touched  him  on  the  shoulder, 
and  he  turned  to  look  into  the  pleas- 


66  STORIES   OF  THE  ARMY 

ant  smiling  face  of  the  man  he  was  revil- 
ing. 

"Joe  !  "  he  cried  out,  joyfully,  "  Cest 
toi  !  "  And  somewhat  to  the  edification 
of  the  surrounding  groups  of  passengers 
he  embraced  him  joyfully. 

' '  You  were  late  and  got  left  ?  "  he 
asked,  as  they  sat  down  on  the  wet  rail- 
bench. 

Sargent  shook  his  head  and  held  out 
his  brawny  right  arm.  "  For  France  !  " 
he  said,  smiling. 

"  Do  you  really  mean  it  ?  " 

"Why  not,  Maurice?  You  said  France 
needed  every  arm  she  could  get.  Well, 
here  is  one.  What  on  earth  have  I  got  to 
do  in  the  world  ?  A  man  cannot  always 
be  hunting,  or  fishing,  or  travelling,  din- 
ing at  the  club,  and  going  to  the  theatre." 

"Or  into  society?" 

41  Isn't  it  much  the  same  thing?  " 

It  was  so  unlike  Sargent  to  make  a  re- 
mark that  smacked  ever  so  little  of  bitter- 


A   CHARGE   FOR   FRANCE 


67 


ness  that  Saint  Brissac  looked  up  quickly, 
and  before  his  sharp,  intelligent  scrutiny 
the  other  turned  away  with  an  awkward 
smile.  After  a  moment  of  silence  the 
Frenchman  laid  his  hand  on  Sargent's  arm, 
and  said,  very  gently,  in  a  voice  that  ex- 
pressed his  sympathy  more  perfectly  than 
could  any  words  : 

"An  arm  for  France,  .  .  .  Joe? 
France  is  sometimes  typified  by  an  eagle, 
sometimes  by  a  flag,  and  sometimes  by  a 
goddess.  There  is  always  a  woman  in  the 
case." 

Sargent  made  no  answer,  and  neither 
again  alluded  to  the  subject. 


A  FEW  weeks  later,  on  the  morning  of 
the  famous  6th  of  August,  the  two  friends 
were  riding  side  by  side  through  the  cool, 
green  shade  of  the  Haguenau  forest.  In 
their  search  for  General  Duhesme  they 


68  STORIES   OF  THE  ARMY 

had  passed  around  the  extreme  right  of 
the  French  army  and  were  continuing 
their  quest  in  a  somewhat  aimless  way 
through  a  country  already  occupied  by 
the  enemy.  Now  and  then,  as  they  peered 
into  the  green  depths  of  foliage,  they 
caught  the  glint  of  a  rifle-barrel  and  a 
glimpse  of  z.franc-tireurs  blouse.  Some- 
times the  color  of  their  amaranth  breeches, 
for  they  wore  undress  staff  uniform, 
seemed  to  reassure  their  would-be  slayer, 
and  he  stepped  on  to  the  road  to  ask  what 
might  be  the  news  of  the  day ;  and  in  turn 
they  asked  information  as  to  their  way. 
Positive  advice  they  never  received.  "  It 
might  be  this,  it  might  be  that,  .  . 
but  again  — "  and  everywhere  they  were 
confronted  by  the  fatal  ignorance  of  facts 
and  places,  which  corutributed  as  much  as 
any  other  cause  to  the  misfortunes  culmi- 
nating at  Sedan. 

The  shadow  of  impending  disaster  lay 
heavy  on  the  land,  and  the  nearer  they 


A   CHARGE   FOR   FRANCE  69 

approached  the  seat  of  war,  the  darker  it 
grew. 

In  Paris  all  was  confusion.  A  hundred 
conflicting  despatches  were  received  daily 
at  the  War  Department,  but  only  the  most 
encouraging  were  sent  out  for  publication. 
The  probability  of  an  invasion  had  never 
been  contemplated,  and  all  the  plans  of 
the  French  were  drawn  up  on  the  basis  of 
a  march  to  Berlin.  A  defensive  campaign 
was  such  an  improbability  that  the  French 
had  never  considered  it  as  a  possible  con- 
tingency. The  classes  in  Paris  knew 
enough  to  be  anxious,  but  the  masses  in- 
terpreted such  news  as  was  doled  out  to 
them  according  to  their  own  desires,  and 
studied  the  map  of  Germany  with  pathetic 
ignorance.  Many  a  concierge  and  his  wife 
invested  a  few  laboriously  saved  francs 
in  a  large  map  of  Prussia,  and  planted  red- 
headed pins  where  they  believed  their  son 
ought  now  to  be.  Wissembourg  had  not 
been  fought,  and  in  the  story  of  the  first 


70  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

skirmishes  the  facts  had  been  colored  with 
more  than  poetical  license.  '  The  axiom 
of  the  day  was  simply  that  France  was  in- 
vincible. Hence,  if  a  battle  had  been 
fought,  the  enemy  must  have  been  rout- 
ed ;  if  not  routed,  at  least  defeated  ;  if  not 
defeated,  and  this  interpretation  of  the 
news  was  improbably  conservative,  the 
Prussians  had  been  checked.  Such  a  neu- 
tral result  aroused  the  contempt  of  the 
disputatious  plebs.  In  the  cafes,  in  the 
brasseries,  on  extemporized  platforms,  the 
long  down-trampled  hydra  of  republican- 
ism raised  its  heads,  snarled  loudly,  an- 
grily, at  the  evident  degeneracy  of  the 
French  army,  and  predicted — nay,  clam- 
ored for  —  the  fall  of  the  Empire.  And 
they  builded  better  than  they  knew,  for 
the  degringolade  was  at  hand. 

Arriving  in  the  midst  of  such  confusion, 
Saint  Brissac  had  experienced  no  difficulty 
in  securing  a  pass  for  his  friend  Sargent's 
American  weapons  and  ammunition  ;  still 


A  CHARGE  FOR   FRANCE  7* 

less  in  obtaining  for  both  a  staff  appoint- 
ment at  large,  which  would  allow  them  to 
choose  their  own  fighting  ground.  This 
was  totally  at  variance  with  any  existing 
army  regulations,  but  Saint  Brissac  had 
such  influential  friends  that  the  favors  he 
requested  were  conferred  with  a  celerity 
that  implied  a  fear  of  non-acceptance  on 
his  part.  Good  men  seemed  suddenly  to- 
have  become  scarce  in  France. 

On  the  eve  of  their  departure  from  Paris. 
Saint  Brissac  went  up  to  Sargent's  room 
and  brought  him  his  uniform.  Joe  looked 
up  from  the  map  he  was  studying  and  no- 
ticed that  his  friend  was  very  pale. 

"  Any  news  ?  "  he  asked,  in  his  charac- 
teristically careless  way. 

"Yes;  we  start  at  eight  in  the  morn- 
ing; staff  officers.  I'll  tell  you  about  it 
on  the  way,"  Saint  Brissac  answered. 
Then  he  added,  after  a  pause,  during 
which  he  nervously  paced  the  room : 
"  The  enemy  is  in  France.  But,  Joe,  I 


72  STORIES   OF   THE   ARMY 

suppose  you  cannot  understand  what  that 
means  to  me." 

Sargent  replied  phlegmatically :  "Well, 
if  the  enemy  is  in  France,  the  next  thing  to 
do  is  to  drive  him  out."  As  he  raised  his 
•eyes  he  was  struck  with  the  expression  of 
anguish  on  Saint  Brissac's  face.  "  Come, 
Maurice,"  he  said,  rising  and  laying  his 
hand  on  his  friend's  shoulder,  "  things  al- 
ways seem  worse  on  the  day  before. 
When  we  are  out  there  and  get  to  work, 
you'll  see  everything  in  a  different  light. 
Brace  up,  old  man !  If  it  comes  to  the 
worst,  why,  we  can  continue  this  little  trip 
together,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  away  into 
the  happy  hunting-grounds." 

"  What  a  blessing  you  are,  Joe,"  the 
other  answered,  suddenly  smiling  and 
looking  up  at  the  square,  rugged  face  of 
his  companion.  "  The  'indifference  and 
carelessness  which  we  learn  to  assume  are 
perfectly  natural  to  you  ;  and  what  a  dif- 
ference there  is  between  the  genuine  and 


A   CHARGE   FOR   FRANCE 


73 


the  imitation  article !  I  assure  you  it  does 
me  more  good  to  listen  to  you  for  five 
minutes  than  to  spend  an  hour  at  the 
War  Department  and  hear  the — I  suppose 
you  would  call  it  hurrahing — of  a  lot  of 
men,  clever  men  too,  who  are  trying  to 
hide  the  truth  behind  a  screen  of  tradi- 
tional conventionalities  and  phrases.  Have 
you  ever  seen  any  fighting,  Joe  ?  " 

"  You  would  hardly  call  it  fighting,  I 
suppose,"  Sargent  answered,  laughing. 
"  I  served  through  a  couple  of  Apache 
campaigns,  for  the  fun  of  it,  and  so  I  do 
know  what  a  bullet  sounds  like  when  it 
passes  an  inch  or  two  away — and  that  is  a 
trick  those  Apache  bullets  have.  I  guess 
I'll  do  well  enough,  Maurice,  because," 
he  continued,  with  a  drop  in  his  voice, 
"  because  as  far  as  I  am  concerned  I  don't 

care  a  d how  it  all  turns  out.     In  a 

tight  corner  it  helps  a  man  to  know  that 
he  has  no  family  responsibilities  ;  no  let- 
ters to  read  over  at  the  last  minute,  and 


74  STORIES   OF  THE  ARMY 

all  that  sort  of  thing.  Johnny  Steens, 
who,  by  the  way,  was  killed  in  one  of  our 
brushes  with  the  Indians,  used  to  say  that 
he  should  prefer  to  start  out  as  a  found- 
ling, with  just  money  enough  to  make  a 
start  as  a  Gil  Bias  or  some  such  picaro.  I 
guess  there  is  something  in  that.  A  fel- 
low could  afford  to  take  big  chances  then 
and  have  lots  of  fun.  Well,  you  say 
we're  off  in  the  morning,  eh?  Suppose, 
then,  we  quit  swapping  lies  and  get 
ready." 

Their  journey  from  Paris  to  the  front 
was  a  horrible  nightmare  to  Saint  Bris- 
sac  ;  a  stern  disillusion  to  Sargent.  For, 
though  he  modestly  alluded  to  his  cam- 
paigns in  Arizona  and  Sonora  as  mere 
hunting  trips,  he  had  there  received  such 
training  and  such  correct  critical  insight 
as  well-organized  campa'gns  often  fail  to 
give.  It  was  apparent  to  him  that  dis- 
order was  everywhere  the  order  of  the 
day ;  confusion  and  ignorance  the  watch- 


A   CHARGE   FOR   FRANCE  75 

words.  Saint  Brissac  bit  his  mustache  in 
despair.  Joe  smoked  grimly  ;  but  neither 
spoke.  They  understood  each  other  and 
there  was  nothing  to  say. 

The  morning  was  well-nigh  noon  before 
they  found  the  old  general,  seated  under 
a  tree  on  a  knoll  overlooking  a  part  of  the 
battle-field.  In  a  little  hollow  behind,  the 
Eighth  and  Ninth  Cuirassiers  stood  dis- 
mounted by  their  horses,  and  still  further 
back  two  squadrons  of  the  Sixth  Lancers 
halted  at  ease.  A  mile  and  a  half  away 
the  picturesque  little  village  of  Mors- 
bronn  lay  across  the  plain,  like  a  brown 
lizard,  quivering  in  the  intense  heat.  To 
the  left  the  deep  booming  of  the  artillery 
alternated  with  the  sharp,  snarling  tattoo 
of  the  musketry.  The  distant  clumps  of 
woods  were  cushioned  with  rounded 
clouds  of  smoke  that  dissolved  slowly,  and 
hung  in  shreds  across  the  tree-tops.  Here 
and  there,  through  the  fields  of  hops, 
broken  black  lines  advanced  and  patches 


76  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

of  red  receded.  Fifty  thousand  French- 
men were  losing  a  battle  against  one  hun- 
dred and  eighty  thousand  Germans.  But 
the  fight  was  yet  only  at  its  height,  and, 
though  the  result  was  a  foregone  conclu- 
sion, the  defeated  were  not  yet  beaten,  nor 
the  conquerors  victorious. 

Just  outside  of  the  circle  of  staff  officers 
Saint  Brissac  and  Sargent  dismounted, 
threw  their  reins  to  an  orderly,  and 
stepped  up  to  where  the  general  stood. 

"Do  you  bring  orders?"  he  asked, 
without  taking  his  field-glass  from  his 
eyes. 

"No,  sir;  we  come  to  take  them," 
Saint  Brissac  answered,  as  he  handed  a 
letter  to  the  general. 

"  Why,  Maurice,  is  it  you?"  the  old 
gentleman  exclaimed  as  he  wrung  the 
soldier's  hand.  "  How  gfad  I  am  to  see 
you !  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  My  friend  Mr.  Sargent  and  I,  gen- 
eral, crave  the  honor  of  acharge  with  you." 


78  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

"Charge?"  the  old  soldier  answered, 
testily.  "Who  the  devil  told  you  we 
were  going  to  charge  ?  " 

"  Excuse  me,  general.  What  else  were 
cuirassiers  made  for  ?  " 

"  Quite  right,  my  boy,  quite  right.  It 
was  so  up  to  Waterloo ;  but  everything 
seems  to  be  wrong  to-day.  Later,  perhaps 
we  may  have  the  pleasure  of  doing  our 
duty."  Then  calling  to  his  chief  staff 
officer  he  said  to  him,  "  These  gentlemen 
will  ride  with  the  Eighth." 

"  In  what  capacity,  general  ?  " 

"  Privates,"  answered  Saint  Brissac, 
promptly. 

The  general  waved  his  hand  in  acqui- 
escence and  said  kindly:  "  A'ous  nous 
rev err on s — peut-etre  !  " 

As  they  were  about  to  move  away  a 
couple  of  bullets  sang  through  the  trees 
above  them,  and  their  attention  was 
drawn  to  a  group  of  Prussians  emerging 
from  an  apple  orchard  about  six  hundred 


A   CHARGE   FOR    FRANCE  79 

yards  away.  A  mounted  officer,  a  few 
steps  ahead  of  his  men,  examined  the 
French  through  his  glasses  and  directed 
the  fire  of  the  sharpshooters.  Somewhat 
to  the  contemptuous  astonishment  of  the 
French  officers  Sargent  had  dropped  be- 
hind a  rock  as  the  first  bullet  pinged  above 
him,  and  a  second  later  the  sharp,  sting- 
ing report  of  his  45-90  rang  out  twice. 
When  the  smoke  had  cleared  they  saw  a 
riderless  horse  galloping  away,  and  before 
the  suddenly  deserted  orchard  wall  two 
dark  things  lying  on  the  road.  Sargent 
had  raised  himself  on  one  knee  and  was 
quietly  replacing  his  two  spent  cartridges. 

"Matin!  Monsieur  Sargent,"  the  gen- 
eral exclaimed.  "  You  do  not  speak  of- 
ten, but,  when  you  do,  your  words  are  to 
the  point!  " 

Joe  laughed  as  he  straightened  himself, 
still  cautiously  scanning  the  woods  ahead. 
"  If  those  fellows  had  been  Apaches,  gen- 
eral," he  said  in  his  frank,  familiar  way, 


80  STORIES   OF   THB  ARMY 

"  you  would  be  snug  behind  that  tree- 
trunk,  or  a  dead  man  in  front  of  it,  and  I 
wouldn't  be  such  a  fool  as  to  stand  out  of 
the  shadow  of  that  rock  for  better  than 
half  an  hour." 

"  Voyez-vous  cela!"  exclaimed  one  of 
the  officers.  "  Ces  Americains  sont  impay- 
ables!" 

"I  bet,  general,"  interrupted  Saint 
Brissac,  "you  thought  he  was  afraid 
when  he  dropped  like  the  ace  of  clubs  be- 
hind that  rock.  'Pon  my  honor,  if  I  hadn't 
seen  him  at  work  after  big  game  I'd  have 
thought  so  myself." 

Duhesme  was  looking  approvingly  at 
Sargent's  large,  careless  figure.  "  I  shall 
never  think  so  again,"  he  said,  quietly. 
"  Now,  gentlemen,  to  your  posts!  Mon- 
sieur de  Satory  will  look  after  you.  Ah  ! 
Satory !  one  moment,  please,"  he  added, 
as  they  moved  away.  "  Put  that  young 
Goliath  somewhere  near  the  flag." 

In  the  little  ravine  below,  the  men  were 


A   CHARGE    FOR   FRANCE  8l 

listening  anxiously  to  the  rumbling  of  the 
battle.  Half-way  between  them  and  the 
group  of  staff  officers  an  old  bugler,  erect 
on  his  white  horse,  waited  eagerly  for 
orders.  Now  and  then  a  lost  shell  dropped 
among  the  compact  crowd  and  created  a 
momentary  confusion.  Then  the  wounded 
were  carried  away,  and  the  dead  laid 
against  the  green  bank,  face  upward,  gaz- 
ing, with  sightless  eyes  at  the  blue  eter- 
nity above.  On  the  edge  of  the  road  a 
few  frightened  peasants  leaned  on  their 
shovels  and  gaped,  open-mouthed,  at  the 
magnificent  soldiers  before  them.  As  long 
as  there  remained  such  men  to  fight  for 
her,  France — and  they — must  be  safe. 

From  time  to  time  a  false  alarm  caused 
a  passing  flurry  in  this  mass  of  iron-clad 
men,  as  would  a  breeze  rippling  through 
a  grove  of  poplars.  The  troopers  cursed 
under  their  breath,  the  officers  grumbled, 
and  then  all  dropped  back  again  into  a 
semblance  of  apathy.  But  nevertheless 


82  STORIES    OF    THE   ARMY 

the  suspense  was  intolerable,  and  even 
the  steadiest  trembled  with  suppressed 
excitement- 

As  de  Satory,  Saint  Brissac,  and  Sar- 
gent came  toward  them  the  soldiers 
moved  nearer  to  their  horses,  ready  to 
mount,  and  a  couple  of  officers  rode  for- 
ward to  meet  them. 

"  Well,  at  last  ?  "  they  cried  out. 

"No,  there  is  nothing!"  Satory  an- 
swered, curtly.  "Here,  put  those  dead 
men  underground,  with  each  a  sword- 
handle  for  a  cross.  Take  off  their  armor. 
These  gentlemen  will  charge  with  the 
Eighth  and  need  accoutrements.  Get 
those  peasants  to  work,  and  sent  Captain 
Moirac  to  me  at  once.  Captain,"  he 
continued,  as  that  officer  rode  up,  "  I  pre- 
sent you  Mr.  Sargent,  ^an  American,  and 
the  Comte  de  Saint  Brissac.  They  will 
ride  next  to  the  flag-bearer.  The  general 
requests  that  they  be  properly  armed." 

"  Saint  Brissac  here  !  "  the  captain  ex- 


A   CHARGE   FOR   FRANCE  83 

claimed,  holding  out  his  hand.  "  I  thought 
you  were  in  America.  It  is  delightful  to 
see  you  again  .  .  .  gambling  as  usual ; 
.  .  .  it  is  rouge  et  noir  this  deal,  pre- 
ceded by  a  little  picquet,  .  .  ." 

"  Parbleu!"  answered  Maurice,  in  the 
same  light  -  hearted  tone;  "we  lead 
hearts  !  " 

' '  Good  !  against  the  clubs  of  Prussia 
and  the  diamonds  of  Bavaria." 

"  But  black  will  take  the  stake,"  broke 
in  de  Satory.  "  Mark  my  words,  gentle- 
men, spades  will  cover  hearts  and  di- 
amonds and  clubs  alike  ;  spades  will  be 
trumps  this  evening,"  he  repeated,  riding 
away. 

"  Our  friend  is  lugubrious,"  cried  Saint 
Brissac,  laughing,  as  he  watched  the  other 
moving  off. 

"And  no  wonder,"  remarked  a  young 
lieutenant  who  had  joined  the  party  ;  "  we 
have  not  had  a  decent  bottle  of  wine  for 
ten  days." 


84  STORIES  OF   THE  ARMY 

Accoutred  in  dead  men's  armor  the 
friends  waited  in  the  saddle  on  either 
side  of  the  stalwart  flag-bearer.  The 
lines  were  not  very  straight,  and  when- 
ever a  shell  dropped  among  them  they 
swung  to  and  fro,  or  fronted  about  to 
make  room  for  the  dismal  processions  of 
dead  or  wounded  that  passed  between 
them  to  the  rear.  The  horses  fretted  and 
champed  their  bits  ;  the  men  played  with 
their  swords  and  cursed  at  their  enforced 
inactivity.  All  around,  the  deafening  din 
of  the  battle  swayed  back  and  forth,  now 
fainter,  now  louder,  as  the  breeze  blew  this 
way  or  that ;  and  yet  no  news,  no  orders, 
reached  them.  Then  suddenly  the  firing 
seemed  to  grow  more  brisk  on  the  right. 

Saint  Brissac  leaned  forward  and  lis- 
tened. "  It  will  be  our  turn  soon,"  he 
said,  and,  leaning  over,  he  held  out  a 
blank  sealed  package  to  Sargent.  "  If  I 
don't  come  back,  Joe,"  he  asked,  "will 
you  deliver  this  in  person  ?  " 


A   CHARGE   FOR   FRANCE  85 

Sargent  nodded,  and  put  the  envelope 
away.  In  the  nervous,  excited  throng  he 
was  the  coolest  man  present.  His  training 
in  the  desert,  where,  of  all  places,  patience 
is  a  virtue,  now  stood  him  in  good  stead. 
While  other  men  jumped  on  and  off  their 
horses,  he  sat  so  perfectly  still  and  ap- 
parently unmoved  that  the  veteran  flag- 
bearer  said  to  him : 

"You  have  seen  much  service,  mon- 
sieur? " 

"It  is  my  first  battle,"  Joe  answered, 
quietly. 

"  Well,  young  man,"  the  other  replied, 
"my  compliments  to  you!  You  will  go 
far.  It  seems  hardly  right  to  intrust  the 
flag  to  a  foreigner,  but,  if  I  fall,  you  take 
it.  There  isn't  a  man  of  your  size  in  the 
regiment." 

Suddenly,  shrill  and  clear,  the  bugle 
sounded  the  Garde  a  vous,  and  a  tremor 
shook  the  two  regiments.  The  swearing 
and  grumbling  ceased,  and  a  dead  silence 


86  STORIES   OF  THE  ARMY 

seemed  to  fall  on  the  ranks.  The  men 
swung  themselves  into  the  saddle,  reined 
their  horses  into  line,  and  waited.  A  few 
officers  galloped  along  the  front,  an  order 
passed  down  the  line,  and  the  mounted 
iron-breasted  mass  moved  forward  out  of 
the  shadow  into  the  sun.  As  of  their  own 
accord  the  squadrons  deployed  and  again 
waited.  A  staff  officer  rode  down  the  front 
and  waved  his  kepi. 

"  Boys  !  "  he  cried,  "  the  country  needs 
you.  You  are  going  to  charge.  Ahead 
of  you  are  ten  thousand  bayonets,  glory, 
and  death.  Behind  you,  our  shattered 
right  wing.  You  must  save  them,  cost 
what  it  may.  Good-by,  boys  !  Go  it  as 
your  fathers  did  at  Waterloo !  " 

A  voice  answered  from  the  ranks,  ' '  All 
right,  general !  We  haven't  forgotten  how 
the  old  fellows  charged."  The  next  mo- 
ment the  hoarse  cry  of  Vive  la  France! 
rang  from  twelve  hundred  throats. 

And  then  again    there  was    a    pause. 


A   CHARGE   FOR   FRANCE  87 

Several  horsemen  wheeled  into  place  in 
their  respective  positions.  A  half-intel- 
ligible order  rippled  through  the  ranks. 
The  bugle  sounded.  The  lines  oscillated, 
and  instinctively  the  squadrons  chose  their 
ground.  The  front  moved  ahead,  and  the 
long  diagonal  shrank  into  column.  Then 
again  they  halted  for  a  moment,  and  the 
first  bullets,  fired  from  too  great  a  distance 
to  do  any  harm,  rang  against  the  steel 
cuirasses  with  a  dull,  swinging,  melan- 
choly sound. 

Saint  Brissac  reached  over  and  shook 
Sargent's  hand  —  and  they  were  off. 
Twelve  hundred  swords  flashed  from  their 
scabbards  and  cast  a  bar  sinister  of  shadow 
across  the  golden  shield  of  the  burnished 
cuirasses  ;  and  the  long  horse-tails  stream- 
ed out  behind  the  star  of  light  that  sat 
upon  each  man's  helmet. 

The  ground  was  very  bad  —  sunken 
roads  between  high  embankments  ;  stone 
walls,  orchards,  and  hop  fields,  crowded 


STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 


with  sharpshooters.  But  more  terrible 
than  all  were  the  eight  batteries  of 
Gunstett  sending  their  irresistible  death- 
ploughs  through  the  gallant,  galloping 
mass  of  cannon-meat.  From  the  right, 
from  the  left,  from  the  front,  sheets  of 
leaden  hail  swirled,  and  whisked,  and 
whistled,  and  shrieked  at  them,  sinking 
into  the  quivering  flesh  with  a  dull,  sod- 
den sound,  puncturing  helmet  and  cuirass 
alike  to  deliver  their  direct  death-message  ; 
or,  coming  aslant,  brushing  over  the  keen 
blades,  were  shattered  into  angry,  fluid 
fragments  against  the  bright  armor  that 
gave  forth  a  curiously  muffled  ring.  The 
ranks  opened  and  closed  again  with  that 
ghastly  lozenge-shaped  motion  that  means 
death  or  suffering,  a  tomb  or  a  wound,  for 
each  divergence.  And,  strange  to  say, 
not  a  human,  not  a  living* sound  was  heard. 
The  rumble  of  the  clattering  hoofs,  the 
sombre  drumming  accompaniment  of  the 
musketry,  the  harsh  clang -clanging  of 


A   CHARGE   FOR   FRANCE  89 

the  lead  pouring  in  fierce  gusts  on  the  ad- 
vancing line  of  steel,  the  deep  bass  rolling 
of  the  heavy  guns,  drowned  all  animate 
sounds.  No  death-cries  were  heard  ;  the 
wounded  fell  dumb  ;  no  horses  neighed ; 
no  riders  yelled.  Twelve  hundred  started  ; 
eleven  —  ten  —  eight  —  six  —  four  hundred 
reached  the  village.  Into  it,  into  it,  flags 
ahead !  like  a  human  torrent,  the  quarters 
of  the  horses  dancing  a  staccato  death- 
dance  cadence  like  the  crested  flow  of  a 
rushing  stream,  rising  and  falling  and  dis- 
appearing ;  rising  and  falling  again,  and 
falling,  as  a  torrent,  smoothing  itself  out 
into  a  bank  of  rapids.  And  at  the  end  of 
the  long,  crooked  street,  suddenly,  a  barri- 
cade and  a  human  whirlpool !  From  above, 
from  every  roof  and  window  and  balcony 
and  shutter  the  death-hail  rattles  down. 
And  again  a  lull ;  a  vision  of  dismounted 
men  tearing  away  at  the  dam  ;  and  once 
more  released  the  stream  rushes  on  with  a 
bound  into  the  great  orchard  beyond. 


90  STORIES    OF   THE   ARMY 

In  such  a  race  there  are  no  incidents, 
no  personalities.  A  man  is  as  a  drop  of 
water,  a  human  atom  whirled  along  by 
a  rushing  current  and  emptied  out  be- 
yond, dizzy  and  half-stunned.  Four  hun- 
dred had  reached  the  village  ;  sixty  rode 
out  of  it.  In  his  left  hand  Saint  Brissac 
grasped  the  flag,  in  his  right  a  broken 
sword.  Beside  him  Sargent,  whose  hel- 
met had  been  shot  off,  was  binding  a 
handkerchief  around  his  forehead.  Six 
cuirassiers,  panting  and  mostly  wounded, 
sat  on  their  horses  behind  them ;  and 
that  was  all.  The  main  body  had  di- 
verged to  the  south  and  left  these  eight 
men  stranded  on  a  little  knoll,  a  stone's 
throw  from  the  road.  How  they  reached 
it,  why  they  remained  on  it,  not  one  of 
them  understood. 

Sargent  looked  arourfd'  and  laughed 
hysterically.  "  I  feel  as  though  I  had  been 
through  the  rapids  at  Niagara,"  he  said. 
"  How  long  do  you  suppose  that  business 


A  CHARGE   FOR   FRANCE  91 

lasted,  Maurice  !  Hullo  !  where  did  you 
get  that  flag?  " 

"  I'm  sure  I  couldn't  tell  you,  Joe.  Are 
you  hurt?  " 

"  Not  to  speak  of.  By  Jove  !  here  is  my 
flask,  full  and  unbroken.  Here's  luck 
for  you  !  Let's  have  a  nip  all  around  ;  I 
guess  we've  earned  it.  There,  that's 
good  ;  now,  what's  the  next  thing  to  do  ?  " 

"  Ma  foi,  mon  capitaine"  cried  out 
one  of  the  men,  "just  look  around  you  ! 
there's  nothing  left  but  to  die!  " 

"  Well,"  Sargent  answered,  good-hu- 
moredly,  "after  what  we  have  been 
through  that  don't  seem  quite  as  easy  as 
it  looks.  Come ;  jump  off  your  horses, 
boys,  and  unsling  your  carbines.  There 
are  a  couple  of  dead  fellows  in  that  ditch 
who'll  fix  us  out  with  cartridges.  Why, 
Maurice,  old  man,  you  look  played  out ; 
what's  the  matter?  There's  plenty  of 
fight  in  us  yet.  Cheer  up,  boys  !  If  we've 
got  to  die,  let  us  die  like  good  men  !  " 


92  STORIES    OF   THB  ARMY 

And  here  the  difference  of  character  of 
the  two  men  showed  itself.  In  the  attack 
the  reckless,  dashing  young  Frenchman 
led  the  way,  fearless,  undaunted,  always 
in  the  front  rank.  But  now  that  the  battle 
was  lost,  and  the  fight  had  become  a  pure- 
ly defensive  one — a  pushing  way  of  death 
as  it  were — his  grip  was  gone,  and  the 
solid,  staying  qualities  of  the  New  Eng- 
lander  came  out  in  strong  contrast.  The 
men  at  once  recognized  him  as  their 
leader,  and  whether  by  influence  of  the 
brandy,  or  of  his  cheeriness,  they  buckled 
heartily  to  the  task  before  them.  Sargent 
understood  this  as  well  as  they,  and  acted 
accordingly. 

"Tear  the  silk  off  that  staff,  Maurice, 
and  put  it  inside  your  jacket.  We  must 
not  lose  the  flag.  Now,  boys,  look  to 
your  arms  again  ;  it  is  tinrfefor  those  pork- 
eaters  to  be  at  us— and  here  they  come, 
sure  enough  !  Lie  low,  boys,  and  aim 
quietly,  each  mark  his  man  !  " 


A  CHARGE  FOR   FRANCE 


93 


A  moment  later  a  volley  crashed  over 
them. 

"  On  to  your  horses  and  charge !  "  Sar- 
gent yelled — and  it  seemed  that  his  words 
had  barely  died  away  before  they  were 
back  again  —  three  men,  Saint  Brissac, 
and  Sargent.  "  My  God,  Maurice,"  the 
latter  said,  "  I  haven't  a  cartridge  left." 

"  Nor  I,"  the  other  answered,  dogged- 
ly. The  men  shared  with  them  and  they 
waited.  They  were  too  weak  to  charge 
again,  but  stood  gallantly  at  bay.  Three 
times  the  little  band  repulsed  their  assail- 
ants until  all  their  ammunition  was  ex- 
hausted ;  and  again  they  waited.  The 
black  uniforms  were  all  around  them. 

Then  some  hussars  came  forward  and 
Sargent  rode  out  alone,  a  bloody  hand- 
kerchief around  his  forehead,  and  his  long, 
straight  blade  before  him.  The  German 
officer  advanced  and  gruffly  demanded 
their  surrender. 

"Come   and   take  us!"  was  the  quiet 


94  STORIES   OF   THE   ARMY 

answer ;  and  Joe  urged  his  horse  onward. 
The  soldier  laughed  and  cocked  his  pistol. 
"  Another  step,  my  friend,  and  you  are 
carrion."  But  Sargent  still  moved  toward 
him.  Sabre  and  pistol  flashed  at  the  same 
moment ;  and  Joe  disengaged  himself 
from  his  fallen  horse,  the  hussar  dropped 
out  of  his  saddle  on  to  the  grass,  and  the 
little  band  cheered,  as  even  desperate 
men  will  do  when  they  see  a  brave  deed 
nobly  done.  Even  the  Germans  seemed 
ashamed  to  attack  again.  After  a  few 
moments  of  deliberation  another  officer 
rode  forward,  with  a  handkerchief  on  the 
end  of  his  sword,  and  Sargent  met  him 
half-way. 

"  Will  you  surrender?  "  he  asked,  cour- 
teously. "You  have  done  all  that  brave 
men  can  do.  You  know  the  laws  of  war 
— we  shall  have  to  close  In  on  you,  and  if 
you  do  not  surrender,  .  .  .  well,  you 
know  what  must  happen  as  well  as  I  do. 
.  Think  on  it  a  moment,  sir.  You 


A  CHARGE   FOR   FRANCE  95 

have  no  ammunition,  no  chance  of  escape. 
You  are  alone  in  the  midst  of  our  army. 
Surrender  is  the  only  course  open  to 
you." 

Sargent  glanced  around,  and,  to  his 
amazement,  he  saw  the  four  cuirassiers 
mounted,  and  in  line,  erect  as  on  parade. 
Three  of  them  held  their  broken  swords, 
presenting  arms.  A  step  to  the  front,  his 
shattered  right  arm  limp  by  his  side,  with 
head  thrown  back  and  chest  expanded, 
the  bugler  was  playing  the  grand  old 

hymn : 

Mourir  pour  la  patrie, 

C'est  le  sort  le  plus  beau, 

Le  plus  digne  d'envie.     .     .     . 

And  as  the  notes  sprang  from  the 
dented  instrument,  pathetically  broken 
and  husky,  the  men  straightened  them- 
selves in  their  saddles.  "Perfectly  in- 
sane!" Sargent  said  to  himself;  "but  it 
is  devilish  fine  all  the  same  ;  "  and  turning 
to  the  Prussian  officer  he  added,  with  a 


96  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

wave  of  the  hand  toward  the  little  group 
he  commanded : 

"  You  see,  sir,  surrender  is  out  of  the 
question.  I  must  go  back  to  them."  The 
officer  raised  his  cap  in  token  of  admira- 
tion, and  Sargent  walked  slowly  back  to 
his  men. 

For  a  moment  the  enemy  seemed  em- 
barrassed. Had  they  been  Anglo-Saxons 
they  would  have  given  those  five  heroes  a 
rousing  cheer ;  but  being  merely  Saxons 
the  folly  of  the  action  outweighted  its 
grandeur.  Before  the  generous  officer 
could  prevent  it,  a  last  volley  was  poured 
into  the  little  clump  of  human  wreckage 
that  had  drifted  and  hung  on  that  fatal 
knoll.  It  seemed  more  like  an  execution 
than  a  fight,  and  for  a  few  seconds  the  as- 
sailants held  back  waiting  for  the  smoke 
to  clear. 

By  some  miracle  Sargent  had  not  been 
touched.  Looming  up  through  the  mist 
of  smoke  they  saw  his  giant  figure  rise 


98  STORIES   OF   THE   ARMY 

from  the  grass,  on  to  which  he  had  flung 
himself,  saw  him  snap  his  sword  across 
his  knee  and  hurl  the  fragments  at  them, 
watched  him  bend  over  the  body  of  his 
dying  friend  and  raise  it  with  tender  care 
in  his  mighty  arms,  as  a  mother  might 
bear  her  child,  and  slowly  walk  down 
toward  them  with  his  burden,  their  bloody 
work. 

On  either  side  the  ranks  parted  in 
solemn  silence  as  he  passed  between 
them,  and  so  great  was  the  prestige  that 
enmantled  the  solitary  survivor  that  in- 
stinctively the  officers  saluted  as  he  walked 
down  the  line  to  the  road.  There,  uncon- 
scious of  his  surroundings,  he  turned 
toward  the  village.  A  large  body  of  staff 
officers  had  gathered  on  a  little  eminence 
near  by,  whence  they  had  watched  the 
last  phases  of  the  fight,  and  as  the  big 
cuirassier  passed,  bearing  in  his  arms  the 
body  of  his  comrade  the  commanding 
general  rode  forward. 


A   CHARGE    FOR   FRANCE  99 

Without  realizing  to  whom  he  was 
speaking,  Sargent  looked  up  and  asked, 
in  his  simple,  quiet  way  :  "  Can  you  tell 
me,  sir,  where  I  shall  find  some  water  ? 
I  am  afraid  my  friend  is  dying." 

There  was  something  so  gentle,  so  ab- 
solutely oblivious  of  self,  in  the  stalwart 
young  fellow's  manner  that  the  veteran's 
eyes  suddenly  filled  with  tears. 

"  Your  poor  boy,"  he  said,  kindly,  "he 
is  not  dying — he  is  dead." 

"Dead?" 

At  that  moment  a  burly  Rittmeister 
rushed  from  the  ranks  and  hit  Sargent  on 

the  shoulder.  "  You French  dog  of 

a  prisoner,"  he  said,  "how  dare  you 
speak  to  a  general.  Come  off  here  with 
your  carrion." 

"  Kreuz  Grana ten  Donner  Keilf"  the 
old  general  fairly  yelled,  as  he  smote  the 
brute  across  the  back  with  the  flat  of  his 
sword.  "Get  back  to  the  ranks,  you 
hound !  " 


100  STORIES   OF   THE   ARMY 

Sargent  had  not  even  noticed  the  inci- 
dent. "  Are  you  sure,  sir,  that  he  is 
dead  ?  "  he  asked,  in  a  hopeless,  cruelly 
quiet  voice. 

The  other  merely  nodded,  and  side  by 
side  they  went  down  the  road  a  little  way, 
without  apparent  object,  while  the  men 
made  way  for  them  to  right  and  left. 
Presently  they  passed  a  group  of  sappers, 
and  the  sight  of  their  picks  and  shovels 
seemed  to  rouse  Sargent  from  his  apathy. 
He  stopped  and  looked  up  again. 

"  May  I  bury  him,  sir?  "  he  asked,  in 
the  same  dull  voice. 

The  general  gave  some  orders,  and  a 
few  men  fell  to  digging  a  hole  under  a 
gnarled  old  apple-tree.  When  they  were 
done,  Sargent  bent  forward  and  laid  his 
friend  down  ;  and  they  covered  him  in  si- 
lence. After  it  was  over  he  planted  the 
broken  sword  above  his  head  and  kneeled 
by  the  rough  little  mound.  He  was 
vaguely  conscious  of  the  necessity  of  a 


A   CHARGE   FOR    FRANCE  IOI 

prayer*  but  for  all  his  efforts  he  could 
think  of  none  but  the  little  jingle  we  have 
all  babbled  as  children  at  our  mother's 
bedside.  So,  folding  his  hands,  he  re- 
peated, slowly,  the  old  familiar  verses  : 

Now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep, 
I  pray  the  Lord  my  soul  to  keep. 

Then  his  voice  broke,  and  he  stopped. 
The  white-haired  old  general  removed  his 
cap  and  muttered  between  his  teeth,  as 
the  other  officers  present  uncovered  at  his 
example,  "A  strong  hand  and  a  tender 
heart.  If  my  Fritz  had  lived  I  wish  he  had 
grown  to  be  like  you  !  "  Then  there  was 
a  long,  awkward  silence.  Sargent  rose 
and  looked  around.  For  the  first  time 
since  the  last  volley  was  fired  he  realized 
where  he  was,  and  recognized  the  rank  of 
the  officer  beside  him.  By  way  of  apology 
for  the  liberties  he  felt  he  must  have 
taken,  he  bowed  low,  then  drew  himself 
up. 


102  STORIES    OF   THE   ARMY 

"General,"  he  said,  quietly,  "where 
shall  I  join  my  fellow-prisoners  ?  " 

IV. 

A  FEW  months  later  Sargent  arrived 
in  New  York.  The  long,  dreary  period 
of  captivity  was  over,  and  once  more  he 
was  a  free  man ;  for  although  he  might 
have  availed  himself  of  his  commission  as 
staff  officer,  and  been  liberated  on  parole, 
he  preferred  to  take  his  full  punishment 
alongside  of  the  men  with  whom,  as  a 
private,  he  had  ridden,  verily,  into  the 
jaws  of  death.  At  the  frontier  he  opened 
the  sealed  package  intrusted  to  him  by 
Saint  Brissac  just  before  the  charge,  and 
his  heart  stood  still  as  he  read  the  address 
of  the  enclosed  letter :  T<  To  Miss  Edith 
Thomas."  She  was  the  girl  he  loved,  the 
girl  who  had  rejected  him.  It  was  all 
clear  to  him  then  ;  she  had  loved  Saint 
Brissac — possibly  they  were  engaged — 


A   CHARGE   FOR   FRANCE  103 

and  of  all  men  in  the  world  he  had  been 
chosen  for  the  solemn  duty  of  breaking 
the  news  of  his  friend's  death  to  her.  For, 
of  course,  the  official  despatches  had 
never  mentioned  the  names  of  the  two 
volunteers.  "  Poor  girl,"  he  said  to  him- 
self, and  laughed.  "She  wrecked  my 
happiness,  and  now  I  am  obliged  to  do 
the  same  to  her.  It  is  indeed  a  bitter 
world." 

The  steamer  arrived  in  the  morning, 
and  he  called  in  the  afternoon.  As  he 
walked  up  Fifth  Avenue  none  of  his  for- 
mer friends  recognized  him,  for  indeed  he 
had  grown  very  brown  and  gaunt  during 
the  long  months  of  privation  when  he 
worked  as  a  day-laborer  in  the  German 
prison.  Then  the  broad  scar  across  his 
forehead  had  changed  the  frank,  boyish 
expression  of  his  face,  so  that,  although 
many  stared  at  him  in  an  undecided  sort 
of  way,  as  he  made  no  sign  of  recognition 
no  one  spoke  to  him. 


104  STORIES   OF   THE   ARMY 

Miss  Thomas  was  alone,  for  he  had 
come  early,  and  in  the  somewhat  gloomy, 
conventional  room,  furnished  according 
to  the  most  expensive  New  York  taste, 
Sargent  felt  ill  at  ease.  It  was  as  though 
the  prison  walls  he  had  barely  left  again 
enclosed  him.  They  shook  hands  rather 
stiffly,  and  Joe  retreated  to  the  mantel- 
piece ;  from  there  he  could  retreat  no 
further  and  must  advance. 

"  And  where  have  you  been,  pray, 
during  the  last  year,  Mr.  Sargent?  "  she 
asked,  with  an  assumption  of  light-heart- 
edness. 

"  On  a  serious  errand,  Miss  Thomas," 
he  answered,  much  embarrassed.  "  I  was 
in  France  with  M.  de  Saint  Brissac  dur- 
ing the  campaign  ;  and — and  afterward, 
alone,  ...  in  Germany,  a  prisoner. 
And  .  .  .  please  take  this ;  .  .  . 
he  gave  it  to  me  just  before  the  charge 
where  .  .  .  where  we  were  all  killed 
.  .  I  mean "  Then  he  handed 


A   CHARGE   FOR   FRANCE  105 

the  letter  to  her,  strode  to  the  window, 
and  mopped  his  forehead  with  his  hand- 
kerchief. 

A  few  minutes  passed  in  silence  be- 
fore she  called  to  him. 

Apparently  she  had  not  moved ;  he 
glanced  up  furtively  at  her  face  and  saw 
that  she  had  been  weeping. 

"  Tell  me  about  it,"  she  said,  gently, 
holding  the  letter  in  her  clasped  hands. 
And  the  poor  boy  did.  He  told  how 
Saint  Brissac  had  left  at  once  for  France 
on  receipt  of  the  bad  news  ;  of  his  energy 
in  Paris  ;  of  his  suffering  at  the  disaster 
which  he  felt  must  overwhelm  his  country  ; 
of  his  valiant  charge,  always  in  the  front 
rank  ;  of  his  gay  and  gallant  behavior 
throughout ;  of  his  brave  death  ;  of  his  glo- 
riously simple  funeral  before  the  enemy's 
host.  He  glorified  his  friend,  and  in  do- 
ing so  before  the  woman  he  believed  that 
friend  had  loved,  he  grew  enthusiastic  and 
eloquent.  While  he  talked  he  did  not 


106  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

dare  look  up  at  her,  but  he  heard  her 
sobbing  softly  and  his  heart  yearned  with 
sympathy  for  her  and  bled  with  grief  for  his 
brilliant  friend — for  he  remembered  now 
— ah  so  distinctly  !  that  last  glimpse  of  him, 
erect  and  undaunted  in  the  face  of  death. 

But  when  he  had  finished  a  horrible 
feeling  of  nothingness  came  over  him. 
His  last  duty  was  done,  and  life  seemed 
to  him  like  a  deserted  race-course. 

"Well,"  he  said,  rising,  after  a  pause, 
"  I  think  I  must  go,"  and  he  looked  up. 

The  girl  had  also  risen  from  her  chair 
and  was  holding  Maurice's  letter  toward 
him. 

"  Am  I  to  read  it  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Thank 
you." 

It  was  short,  but  characteristic,  and  ran 
thus: 

"  MADEMOISELLE  :  I  regret  that  our 
very  slight  and  formal  acquaintance  com- 
pels me  to  apologize  for  the  liberty  of 


A   CHARGE   FOR   FRANCE  107 

addressing  you.  Nor  would  I  dare, 
mademoiselle,  to  do  so  were  it  not  for  the 
knowledge  that  if  this  letter  reaches  your 
hands  I  shall  no  longer  be  of  this  world. 
I  intrust  it  to  one  of  the  bravest,  the  no- 
blest, the  most  unselfish,  the  most  loving 
of  men — my  friend  Joe  Sargent.  Ah, 
mademoiselle,  can  I  say  more  ?  May 
your  noble  heart  teach  you  to  read 
between  the  lines  of  your  admiring  and 
devoted  servant, 

"CHARLES  MAURICE, 

Comte  de  Saint  Brissac." 

"Why,     ...     but  what  does  it  all 
mean?"  Sargent  exclaimed  as  he  looked 
up  from  the  paper  at  the  graceful  girl 
before    him.       I    thought    he     ... 
you.     .     .     ." 

"Ah,  Joe,"  she  interrupted,  blushing 
bewitchingly,  and  smiling  at  him  through 
her  tears.  "Joe,  can't  you  read  between 
the  lines  ?  " 


SERGEANT  GORE 

BY  LEROY  ARMSTRONG 
With  Illustrations  by   W.  L.  Metcalf 


ENLISTED  men  in  the  regular  army  do 
not  indulge  in  much  courting  of  any  kind. 
These  sons  of  Mars  who  hold  the  outworks 
of  the  realm  are  not  often  afforded  an  op- 
portunity to  court  even  danger.  Fame, 
that  is  supposed  to  lurk  in  cannons' 
mouths,  there  to  be  sought  by  aspiring 
young  gentlemen  who  make  a  living  by 
the  extinguishment  of  other  aspiring 
young  gentlemen,  is  a  thing  so  rarely 
heard  about  in  the  army  of  the  United 
States  that  sluggish  blood,  tamed  by  some 
drill  and  much  fatigue,  is  never  moved  to 
deeds  of  daring.  Fortune  is,  if  possible, 
farther  away  than  promotion,  for  the  le- 
gions are  not  munificently  rewarded,  and 
the  soldier  who  can  loan  money  is  a  per- 
sonage certain  of  distinction. 

And  as  for  courtship  which  involves  a 


112  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

gentler,  fairer  sex,  that  is  quite  out  of  the 
question.  At  their  quarters,  in  the  tedi- 
um of  walking  post,  and  on  the  long  rides 
down  the  valley  when  "mounted  pass" 
rewards  good  conduct,  some  of  the  men 
may  cherish  these  dreams  of  fair  women, 
but  they  always  set  the  season  of  their 
felicity  far  in  the  future — when  captivity 
shall  have  been  turned  to  freedom. 

But  now  and  then  even  the  ignoble  re- 
cruit in  the  regular  army  finds  an  object 
about  which  he  may  moan  and  dream.  It 
may  not  be  a  face  or  figure  that  would  in- 
spire great  deeds  in  those  who  have  more 
frequent  views  of  women ;  but  beauty  is  a 
matter  of  comparisons.  The  "  handsom- 
est woman  in  the  valley  "  wears  a  diadem 
as  dear  to  her  as  that  which  graces  the 
"  loveliest  lady  in  the  city." 

Fort  Bidwell  had  but'o'ne  unmarried 
woman  in  the  whole  confines  of  the  reser- 
vation, and  she  was  a  half-Spanish  maiden 
who  attended  the  commanding  officer's 


114  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

children.  Her  father  had  been  an  army 
officer,  who  consoled  himself  for  assign- 
ment to  Fort  Yuma  by  marrying  the  belle 
of  the  region — a  territory  that  is  even  yet 
far  more  Castilian  than  Saxon.  Judged 
by  all  canons  of  beauty  Terita  was  not 
handsome.  She  was  short  and  dark,  low- 
browed, and  gifted  with  a  mouth  of  most 
generous  extent ;  but  then,  she  was  young, 
her  hands  and  feet  were  small  and  shape- 
ly, her  eyes  were  deep  and  dark,  and  she 
had  her  mother's  very  witchery  of  dress. 
Seen  beside  the  wives  of  the  officers,  Te- 
rita suffered  somewhat ;  but  then  no  sol- 
dier ever  saw  her  there.  To  them  she  was 
ever  alone  and  unshamed  by  compari- 
sons. 

When  she  wheeled  the  colonel's  chil- 
dren down  the  esplanade  of  an  afternoon 
— the  time  of  all  times  when  an  American 
camp  is  lazy — the  men  would  vie  with 
each  other  in  attentions.  True,  they 
could  not  do  much,  and  the  first  man  at 


SERGEANT    GORE  115 

her  side,  if  not  dislodged  by  Terita's 
frowns,  was  master  of  the  situation. 

But  the  sun  shone  brightly  on  the  es- 
planade all  the  afternoon,  while  just  across 
the  creek  which  formed  one  boundary  of 
the  parade-ground  was  a  level  stretch  of 
grass  that  lay  like  a  carpet  right  up  to  the 
foot  of  a  massive,  towering  wall  of  granite. 
The  time-honored  excuse  for  accosting 
the  maid  was  to  assist  her  and  the  chil- 
dren across  this  brook  on  a  series  of  step- 
ping-stones—  so  much  more  desirable 
than  any  bridge  could  have  been.  Once 
over,  the  commonest  kind  of  courtesy  de- 
manded that  Terita  permit  her  adorer  to 
walk  up  and  down  with  her,  to  fill  the  ad- 
miring, envious  eyes  of  all  the  garrison, 
and  to  win  the  colonel's  graces  no  less 
than  the  girl's,  by  preventing  any  of  the 
little  blunderers  from  falling  in  the  brook. 

It  was,  indeed,  to  the  rank  and  file, 
"  the  shadow  of  a  great  rock  in  a  weary 
land." 


Il6  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

Of  course,  all  this  implied  a  well- 
dressed  soldier,  the  patient  buffing  of 
buttons,  the  polishing  of  shoes,  and  the 
tact  to  simply  happen  on  the  esplanade — 
not  rush  there  as  though  this  were  the 
one  thing  which  could  make  a  man  tidy 
and  agreeable.  And  while  four  out  of 
every  five  men  in  the  fort  would  have  giv- 
en a  month's  pay  any  time  to  walk  and 
talk  with  her,  to  touch  her  hand  at  chance 
intervals,  and  to  wake  that  merry  South- 
ern laugh,  not  nearly  that  proportion 
cared  to  give  the  time  and  trouble  neces- 
sary ;  and  a  still  smaller  number  was  pre- 
pared to  march  out  there  and  run  the  risk 
of  impalement  on  that  keen  glance,  not  to 
mention  the  ridicule  such  a  fate  would 
involve  when  one  returned  to  the  squad- 
room. 

Yet  the  strife  for  h§r'  smiles  was  warm 
enough,  and  several  shared  with  some  ap- 
proach to  equality  the  honor  of  attending 
Terita,  though  not  one  of  them  could  ex- 


SERGEANT   GORE  117 

pect  she  would  dismiss  the  others,  and 
keep  herself  for  him  only.  But  the  girl 
was  rapidly  developing  a  stronger  liking 
for  Sergeant  Gore  than  for  anybody  else. 
He  was  so  handsome,  so  at  ease ;  his  blue 
eyes  shone  with  such  a  light,  and  his  soft, 
white  hands  were  so  caressingly  tender 
when  they  touched  her  own. 

He  was  so  faultlessly  dressed,  and  was 
so  plainly  accustomed  some  time  in  the 
past  to  even  better  company  than  hers, 
that  Terita  always  greeted  him  with  a 
surer  welcome,  walked  with  him  longer, 
and  was  plainly  happier  with  him  than 
with  the  other  men.  And  so  it  came  to 
pass  when  rival  admirers  outwitted  Ser- 
geant Gore  and  gained  the  coveted  posi- 
tion, she  grew  to  inquiring  about  that 
young  man  ;  grew  to  speak  of  his  dress,  his 
learning,  his  better  past.  All  this  was  gall 
and  wormwood  to  the  gallants  who  heard 
it,  and  one  by  one  they  read  dismissal  in 
the  queries,  and  left  the  field  to  Gore. 


Il8  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

He  was  not  the  only  man  of  good  fam- 
ily whom  Dame  Fortune,  in  a  perverse 
mood,  had  sent  to  the  ranks  of  the  reg- 
ular army  ;  he  was  one  of  many.  But 
his  face  and  figure,  no  less  than  his  fam- 
ily-tree, were  his  title-deeds  of  nobility. 
Sergeant  Gore's  weekly  letter  from  his 
Philadelphia  home  had  long  been  one  of 
the  events  at  the  squad-rooms  in  Bidwell. 
A  chosen  few  might  listen  to  some  pas- 
sages. A  somewhat  larger  circle  had  seen 
the  photographs  of  mother  and  sisters, 
and  knew  the  home-life  of  the  Gores  was 
one  to  envy.  They  paid  him  their  highest 
compliment  by  being  interested  in  that 
fairer  half  of  life,  and  asking  respectfully, 
when  the  quarters  were  stillest,  about 
those  from  whom  his  honor  kept  him 
alien. 

During  the  Modoc  'war  young  Billy 
Somers,  just  out  of  a  civilian  college  at 
the  East,  dared  the  rigors  of  a  campaign 
in  the  lava  beds,  quartering  himself  on 


SERGEANT  GORE  119 

his  brother,  the  first  lieutenant  of  Com- 
pany G,  First  Cavalry.  When  Captain 
Jack  and  his  three  unclean  abettors  were 
hanged  at  Klamath  for  defying  the  flag 
and  slaying  the  men  who  bore  it,  young 
William  asked  for  a  commission  in  the 
army.  The  officers  in  general  endorsed 
his  application,  for  he  was  an  uncommon- 
ly agreeable  fellow,  and  all  declared  his 
deserts  firmly  grounded  on  "brave  and 
meritorious  conduct  in  the  Modoc  war." 

Pending  the  action  of  the  Secretary 
of  War  the  young  man  paid  a  visit  to 
his  friends  in  San  Francisco,  and  then, 
as  the  unfruitful  months  vanished,  he 
came  to  Bidwell  and  again  accepted  the 
hospitality  of  his  brother.  He  found  a 
comfortable  seat  on  the  broad  balcony 
of  Lieutenant  Somers's  quarters,  and 
there  smoked  good  "conchas  "  and  watch- 
ed the  golden  afternoons  drift  by. 

He  saw  Terita,  and  being  almost  an 
officer,  if  not  already  crowned  with  a  com- 


mission,  he  needed  no  introduction,  and, 
indeed,  very  little  formality  of  any  kind, 
to  claim  her  acquaintance.  The  girl  was 
flattered  by  his  attentions,  although  the 
more  surely  he  was  an  officer  the  smaller 
the  chance  for  any  union.  But  he  found 
many  pretexts  for  being  with  her.  When 
his  commission  should  come  he  might  be 


SERGEANT   GORE  121 

assigned  to  some  post  in  the  South,  and 
his  Spanish  was  in  woful  need  of  dressing. 
And  she — well,  she  was  a  woman,  and  not 
averse  to  compliment. 

The  children  were  seldom  lifted  across 
the  creek  now.  Terita  said  the  esplanade 
was  good  enough.  And  she  could  not  en- 
courage Sergeant  Gore  to  walk  with  her 
there,  where  every  turn  brought  them 
under  Lieutenant  Somers's  balcony.  Yet 
she  did  love  him.  She  wept  in  secret 
many  times,  vexed  that  fate  gave  her  a 
choice  so  grievous;  and  she  was  often 
very  good  to  Gore,  though  he,  poor  fel- 
low, would  come  back  to  quarters  with 
not  enough  of  reason  left  to  distinguish 
between  a  daily  detail  and  a  death  sen- 
tence. 

But  at  last  the  commons  triumphed. 
Billy  Somers's  commission  didn't  come ; 
maybe  it  never  would.  She  fed  the  hope 
and  let  her  heart  follow  its  stronger  bend- 
ing. Gore  was  in  ecstasies.  He  had  less 


122  STORIES   OF   THE   ARMY 

than  a  year  to  serve,  and  then  an  honor- 
able discharge  would  restore  him,  some- 
what like  the  prodigal  son,  to  a  father's 
house  where  there  was  plenty. 

Terita  slipped  from  her  room  one  night 
and  met  her  lover  on  the  grassy  walk 
beyond  the  creek.  They  strolled  up  and 
down  there  in  the  moonlight,  busy  with 
pictures  that  are  never  unveiled  but  once 
in  all  the  world.  Gore  wore  his  finest  uni- 
form, and  strapped  to  his  side,  lifted  from 
clanking  against  his  spurs,  was  his  bur- 
nished sabre,  for  he  was  sergeant  of  the 
guard  to-day. 

Why  will  a  woman  love  the  tools  of 
war?  What  is  there  in  a  sword  to  fire 
her  with  devotion  for  the  wight  who 
carries  it?  No  one  knows,  yet  that  has 
been  her  weakness  since  JEneas  won  the 
heart  of  Dido.  •  * 

The  mail  had  arrived  to-day,  and  its 
chief  treasure,  his  letter  from  home,  was 
recited  at  length  to  the  fairy  by  his  side. 


SERGEANT   GORE  123 

Terita  listened  and  clung  to  this  hand- 
some fellow ;  she  stroked  his  massive 
arm,  she  touched  his  face,  she  sang  him 
songs  of  love  in  the  soft  Spanish  of  her 
mother-tongue — and  she  turned  like  a 
panther  when  a  man  came  quickly  around 
the  base  of  the  great  rock  and  approached 
her  lover  threateningly. 

It  was  Billy  Somers. 

"Go  to  the  guard-house,  Gore,"  he 
said.  "  You  have  no  business  here." 

But  the  sergeant  knew  his  footing.  He 
was  trespassing  on  regulations ;  he  was  well 
aware  of  that,  but  between  him  and  any 
citizen  he  was  the  better  armed  just  now. 

' '  I  don't  know  why  I  should  take  orders 
from  you,"  he  said,  calmly  and  firmly  ; 
then  he  added,  "Mr.  Somers,"  with  a 
possible  emphasis  on  the  title. 

"  You  are  sergeant  of  the  guard.  Go 
to  your  post,  or  I  will  have  your  belts  off 
in  ten  minutes." 

"  You  go  slow,  or  I  will  have  you  in 


124  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

the  bottom  of  the  creek  in  ten  seconds," 
came  in  anger  from  the  soldier.  Then  he 
added  again,  as  thrust,  reminder,  taunt- 
ing— all  in  one — "  Mr.  Somers." 

"  Lieutenant  Somers,"  corrected  the 
other,  with  an  undoubted  emphasis  on 
the  title. 

"Lieutenant?"  cried  the  girl,  with  an 
inflection  of  inquiry. 

"Lieutenant!"  echoed  Gore,  in  deep 
derision.  He  did  not  believe  the  Secre- 
tary of  War  would  ever  make  that  man 
an  officer. 

"  Yes,  lieutenant,"  said  Somers,  sharply. 
"  My  commission  came  to-day." 

That  settled  it.  He  was  clearly  master 
here.  But  Gore  was  game.  He  took 
Terita's  hand  and  led  her  across  the  brook 
on  the  stepping-stones  that  long  had 
paved  the  way  from  earth,  to  paradise — 
stones  that  memory  would  bind  about  his 
neck  hereafter,  while  he  struggled  in  the 
infinite  sea  of  despair. 


SERGEANT   GORE  125 

But  he  would  have  given  a  sixth  year  of 
service  in  the  barracks  for  just  one  hour 
at  the  hay  corral  with  that  subaltern. 

"  Good-night,  Terita,"  he  said,  as  he 
reached  her  door.  There  was  no  attempt 
at  hushing  his  voice  as  became  a  plebeian 
on  the  borders  of  patrician  realms.  He 
lifted  his  cap  with  perfect  grace,  bowed 
low  and  went  away,  proud  as  a  gentleman. 

All  the  officers  and  their  families,  sitting 
the  evening  out  upon  their  balconies,  saw 
the  episode ;  but  they  had  not  seen  that 
brief  passage  at  arms  across  the  creek. 
The  officer  of  the  day  only  knew  that  here 
was  a  sergeant  of  the  guard  gallanting  a 
girl  when  he  should  have  been  at  his  post. 
He  put  on  his  hat  and  called  to  the  retreat- 
ing figure,  while  Terita  wrung  her  hands 
in  an  agony  for  Gore,  then  pressed  them 
in  rejoicing  for  Somers's  good  fortune. 

The  two  men  met  half-way  across  the 
parade-ground. 

"  What  are  you  doing,  sergeant  ?  " 


126  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

"  Disobeying  orders,  I  fear,  sir,"  an- 
swered the  culprit,  saluting. 

"Go  to  your  post.  I  shall  report  you 
in  the  morning." 

They  saluted  again  and  parted.  That 
night  Sergeant  Gore  was  Upton  personi- 
fied in  his  strict  adherence  to  regulations. 
Next  morning  he  was  relieved  before 
guard  mount,  and  the  corporal  turned 
over  "  the  fort  and  all  its  stores  "  to  the 
succeeding  detail. 

"  Lieutenant  William  Somers  says  you 
insulted  him  last  night,"  said  the  com- 
manding officer,  sternly,  when  he  had 
summoned  Gore  before  him.  The  non- 
commissioned man  told  the  whole  story 
just  as  it  was. 

"  Go  back  to  your  quarters,  and  never 
let  .such  conduct  occur  again." 

Gore  was  out  of  it  easier  than  he  had 
expected.  He  was  not  even  reduced  to 
the  ranks.  Surely  that  grim  old  colonel 
saw  more  than  the  surface  of  things. 


SERGEANT   GORE  127 

But  Terita  ?  Well,  she  grew  very  chill- 
ing. Young  Lieutenant  Somers  honored 
her  with  a  horseback  ride  down  the  valley, 
though  his  conduct  met  stern  disapproval 
from  the  other  officers  and  their  wives.  It 
was  one  thing  for  Terita  to  be  courted  by 
an  enlisted  man  soon  to  leave  the  service  ; 
it  was  quite  another  for  an  officer  to  show 
her  favors — and  she  a  waiting-maid  ! 

Sergeant  Gore  was  not  reduced  to  the 
ranks,  but  he  might  have  been  for  all  he 
cared.  He  was  hopelessly  smitten  by  that 
little  girl.  He  could  not  wake  his  pride 
and  dismiss  all  thought  of  her.  He  grew 
less  tidy,  and  his  springing  gait  became  a 
painful  drag.  He  did  his  duty  in  a  slip- 
shod way,  and  only  roused  to  interest 
when  the  squad-rooms  were  agog  with 
speculation  as  to  where  "  Lieutenant 
Billy  "  would  be  assigned  for  service.  He 
only  listened  to  their  chatter  when  the 
men  recounted  some  new  freak  of  that 
late-fledged  lieutenant.  His  arrogance, 


128  STORIES   OF  THE  ARMY 

his  tyranny,  his  petty  spite,  won  him  a 
place  of  singular  dislike.  Gore  hoped,  yet 
dreaded,  that  the  time  would  come  when 
he  could  wreak  his  anger  on  that  upstart. 
He  did  much  violence  to  his  blood  and 
training  as  he  pictured  some  possible  col- 
lision. He  thought  of  Achilles,  who  was 
bereft  by  a  baser,  not  a  better,  soldier — 
and  smiled  at  the  stupendous  vanity  pent 
in  the  simile. 

A  month  went  by.  The  new  lieutenant 
had  an  open  field  for  Terita,  so  far  as 
rivals  went,  but  he  still  found  rough  sail- 
ing in  the  social  waters.  At  last,  in  self- 
defence,  he  announced  his  intention  to 
marry  the  girl  as  soon  as  he  was  assigned 
to  duty,  and  said,  in  a  burst  of  heroics, 
that  he  would  be  proud  to  take  her  with 
him  as  his  wife  wherever  he  might  go. 
And  from  that  time  -  his  wooing  was 
frowned  on  less  hardly  than  before. 

But  that  assignment  to  duty !  It 
troubled  him  far  more  than  anyone  else. 


SERGEANT   GORE  129 

Until  it  came  that  Spanish  damsel  held 
him  at  a  most  tantalizing  arm's  length.  It 
was  very  provoking.  He  prayed  for  the 
Presidio,  near  San  Francisco  ;  he  dreaded 
Fort  Yuma  or  St.  Francis. 

Sergeant  Gore  lay  half-asleep  on  a 
bench  in  front  of  the  quarters,  and  gazed 
at  that  point  of  rocks  across  the  parade- 
ground.  The  October  wind  lifted  his 
blond  hair  and  blew  it  about,  shaming 
him  for  neglecting  the  barber.  It  oc- 
curred to  him  that  the  mail-coach  was  due 
to-day,  and  he  was  not  so  tidy  as  he 
should  be  when  his  letter  came.  He 
glanced  down  at  his  uniform,  at  his  dusty 
boots ;  he  passed  his  palm  across  a  very 
stubble-field  of  cheek.  He  waked  to  the 
consciousness  that  all  this  was  unmanly, 
not  to  say  unsoldier-like,  no  matter  what 
the  provocation,  and  he  drew  himself  to- 
gether with  a  quick  resolve  to  be  more 
worthy  of  that  distant  home  where  he  was 
waited  with  such  patient  love. 


130  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

As  he  set  his  face  toward  the  rather 
humble  house  of  tonsure  some  quality  in 
the  rising  wind  attracted  him.  An  arrow 
of  cold,  like  an  icy  needle,  shot  its  warn- 
ing through  the  warmer  air.  In  the  north- 
west, hovering  on  the  ragged  peaks  of 
Shasta,  were  banks  of  leaden  clouds, 
while  just  overhead,  with  lowering  press- 
ure, swept  the  fleecy  vanguard  of  the 
storm. 

"  Blizzard  to-night,"  said  Gore,  senten- 
tiously,  to  the  barber ;  and  then,  in  a  tone 
more  life-like  than  they  had  known  in 
weeks,  he  added:  "  One  shave,  one  hair- 
cut, one  waxed  mustache, "and  clambered 
in  the  chair. 

When  he  left  the  place  an  hour  later  he 
was  the  Gore  of  other  days.  Not  a  fleck 
of  dust  stained  the  dark  blue  of  his  gar- 
ments ;  not  a  touch  of  soil  dimmed  the 
lustre  of  his  shoes,  while  buttons,  linen, 
sunny  locks  and  all,  marked  the  model 
soldier. 


SERGEANT   GORE  13! 

Just  before  him  a  little  heap  of  leaves 
and  grasses  woke  in  confusion  and  scam- 
pered up  the  spiral  staircase  of  the  wind. 
Over  in  the  great  corral  swine  were  bor- 
rowing trouble  with  loud,  incisive  cries, 
and  carrying  wisps  of  hay  into  the  lee  of 
heavy  walls.  The  army  of  clouds  that 
stood  on  Shasta  when  he  passed  before 
had  advanced  a  score  of  miles,  and  gusts 
of  cold,  like  scouts,  were  trying  the  pas- 
sages of  canon  and  hill.  Light  flakes  of 
snow  shot  by,  fell  in  a  group  on  the  porch 
at  the  quarters,  and  whirled  in  a  waltz 
to  the  sharp  whistling  of  the  storm. 

"Put  on  your  overcoats,"  said  the 
sergeant  of  the  guard  to  the  relief.  In- 
side the  squad-room  some  men  were 
kindling  a  fire.  Gore  watched  them 
through  the  window,  then  walked  briskly 
to  and  fro  the  length  of  the  building.  He 
was  erect,  clear-brained,  deep-breathing, 
exultant.  His  vigor  was  wakened  by  the 
tonic  of  frost. 


132  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

Snow  drifted  in  long,  loose  ridges  across 
the  parade-ground,  as  the  sundown  roll 
was  called.  At  tattoo  the  blast  had  grown 
so  bitter  that  the  men  stood  close  in  the 
shelter  of  the  buildings,  as  in  midwinter ; 
while  the  officer  of  the  day,  in  top-boots 
and  field-cloak,  was  buried  to  the  knees 
in  the  gathering  drifts.  Taps,  the  final 
bugle-call  of  the  day,  was  drowned  in  the 
louder  trumpetings  of  the  hurricane. 

Gore  thought  of  his  horse,  and  stole 
from  the  barracks  to  make  sure  of  the 
animal's  comfort.  The  storm  was  raging. 
Winds,  like  moistened  lashes,  whipped 
his  face.  He  bent  his  head  and  ran, 
stumbling  over  unfamiliar  things,  trip- 
ping, recovering,  and  chafing  his  freezing 
wrists.  Surely  he  had  gone  far  enough. 
He  was  bewildered.  He  turned  his  back 
and  tried  to  find  the  outlines  of  the  build- 
ings or  the  hills.  Vision  could  not  pierce 
beyond  that  mad,  tempestuous  whirl  of 
sleety  snow. 


SERGEANT    GORE  133 

He  was  lost ! 

But  under  the  chilling  paralysis  of  that 
moment,  when  life  and  death  contended 
with  just  lengthened  lances,  the  heart  of 
the  man  rose  with  a  throb  of  defiance. 
He  would  not  be  frozen.  Where  was  the 
corral  ?  the  quarters  ?  where  was  he  ? 
One  moment  of  confusion  meant  a  panic 
and  the  end.  One  moment  of  calmness 
might  save  him.  He  shouted  aloud,  but 
the  vicious  demon  of  the  storm  snatched 
the  message  and  shattered  it — scattered  it 
to  all  the  winds  at  once.  He  knew  it 
could  not  be  heard  ten  yards  away.  But 
he  called  again,  and  just  as  calmly. 
Somewhere  in  that  hurrying  blast  was 
surely  a  breeze  that  would  carry  the  cry 
to  willing  ears.  He  tried  again. 

Then,  behind  him  just  a  little  way,  rose 
an  answer.  He  turned  and  called  quick- 
ly. Quicker  still  came  a  response.  But 
this  new  voice  was  one  of  beseeching.  It 
was  a  plea  for  help.  Gore  struggled  to- 


134  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

ward  it,  guided  by  its  rising,  waking, 
hopeful  repetition.  He  stumbled  blindly 
against  a  fence — and  knew  his  bearings  in 
an  instant. 

There  to  his  right,  buried  in  the  drift, 
battling  feebly  to  escape,  crouched  "  Lieu- 
tenant Billy." 

Gore  gazed  on  him  in  silence  just  one 
moment  ;  but  in  that  little  lapse  of  time 
his  bosom  was  a  battle-field  of  tempests  as 
fierce  as  that  without.  How  easy  to  end 
it  all  just  here  !  No  need  to  touch  him  ; 
no  need  to  speak.  No  one  on  earth  would 
ever  know  he  stood  above  those  epaulets 
and  took  receipt  in  full  for  slavery. 

Just  one  moment,  and  then  a  breath 
from  that  good  home  in  far-off  Philadel- 
phia flashed  past  the  leagues  that  lay  be- 
tween, and  stirred  his  heart  to  manhood. 

"Hello  there,  Lieutenant!"  he  shout- 
ed, grasping  a  numbed  arm  with  one 
hand,  while  with  the  other  he  held  to  the 
fence  as  to  a  life-line  that  could  bear  them 


SERGEANT   GORE  135 

both  to  safety.  "  Hello,  there  !  Get  up  ! 
You're  freezing." 

The  bewildered  man  rose  stiffly,  grasp- 
ing wildly  for  support.  He  could  not 
walk  ;  he  could  not  stand.  He  fell  full 
length  and  helpless  in  the  snow. 

Gore  stooped  and  wrapped  his  strong 
arms  about  the  prostrate  body  ;  he  raised 
it  to  his  shoulder  and  then  crowded  along 
against  the  fence  till  it  led  him  to  the 
quarters. 

A  month  of  fairest  weather  followed, 
and  not  a  vestige  of  the  storm-wrought 
ruin  could  be  seen  in  the  valley.  Ser- 
geant Gore  was  discipline  again.  He 
didn't  care  about  Terita,  and  he  was  quits 
with  Somers.  His  arms  shone  resplen- 
dent, his  uniform  was  a  model  of  beauty, 
his  conduct  was  all  tnat  a  soldier  could 
desire.  He  declined  with  dignity  the 
lieutenant's  invitation  to  come  to  the  offi- 
cers' quarters  and  be  ^hanked. 


136  STORIES  OF   THE  ARMY 

41  Tell  him,"  he  said  to  the  orderly, 
"'  that  I  saved  him  just  as  I  would  a  steer 
or  a  pony.  I  don't  care  a  copper  whether 
he  gets  well  or  not." 

This  was  far  from  true  ;  but  the  brute 
in  man  is  sometimes  so  strong  that  it  de- 
mands concessions,  and  they  must  be 
made.  He  could  not  forget,  and  it  was 
still  more  impossible  to  forgive. 

He  was  strolling  past  the  esplanade  one 
day,  upright,  defiant.  The  mail  had  just 
brought  him  a  letter  from  home.  It  raised 
him  visibly  above  all  things  in  Bidwell.  It 
warmed  and  comforted — it  satisfied  him. 

Terita  leaned  from  the  colonel's  bal- 
cony and  accosted  him. 

"So  glad  to  see  you,"  she  said.  "I 
have  wanted  to  talk  with  you.  Let  us  walk 
on  the  grass  beyond  the  creek  to-night." 

"What  will  Somers  s'ay ?  " 

How  perverse  he  was.  But  even  as  he 
watched  for  the  effect  of  his  thrust,  his 
heart  leaped  wildly.  Oh,  those  little 


SERGEANT   GORE  137 

hands,  that  gladsome  face,  those  ripe,  red 
lips! 
"  Why,"  with  a  laugh,  "  what  do  I  care  ?  " 

Plainly  the  new  commission  had  lost  its 
charms. 

"I'll  come,"  said  Gore,  not  quite  so 
heartily  as  he  once  had  done,  but  with  a 
vein  of  independence  that  was  worth  much 
to  him. 

That  night  they  crossed  the  creek, 
treading  those  blessed  stepping-stones,  and 
walked  in  the  moonlight  again.  The  even- 
ings were  chilling  now,  and  Terita  wore 
a  true  Castilian  mantilla.  They  talked 
of  everything — but  one.  She  sang  the 
old  songs,  she  laughed  and  flattered  him  ; 
she  won  him  utterly,  and  then  she  said : 

"You  were  so  good  to  save  'Lieuten- 
ant Billy. '  Poor  fellow,  he  is  so  grateful 
to  you." 

Gore  sniffed  his  contempt. 

"He  has  been  assigned  to  duty  at — I 
can't  remember." 


138  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

"The  Presidio?"  with  fear  and  trem- 
bling. 

"No — oh,  my,  no.  At  Fort  Buford,  in 
Northern  Dakota.  His  orders  came  to- 
day." 

Talk  of  anything  now.  She  has  spread 
her  net,  has  secured  her  prize  ;  here  she 
transfixed  him.  When  he  left  her  that 
night  Sergeant  Gore  trod  on  zephyrs.  He 
was  too  happy  to  lie  in  bed  even  after 
taps,  and  stole  away  beyond  the  boiling 
springs  to  walk  alone  and  fashion  castles 
in  the  air — castles  that  in  these  later  days 
he  has  peopled  with  the  fairies  of  love  re- 
quited, the  genii  of  manhood's  strength 
and  woman's  blessing. 

And  Terita?  Why,  time  has  given 
stature,  rarest  comeliness,  and  unswerv- 
ing truth  to  her.  She  is  prouder  of  her 
home,  her  handsome  htfsband,  and  her 
pretty  children,  than  ever  was  the  wife  of 
a  grandee  in  Spain. 


THE  TALE    OF    A    GOBLIN 
HORSE 

BY   CHARLES   C.    NOTT 


HORSES  are  like  babies— chiefly  inter- 
esting to  their  owners.  Occasionally  they 
emerge  from  the  enclosure  of  home  life, 
and  become  interesting  to  other  people. 
One  in  a  million  may  find  his  way  into 
print,  but  most  rare  are  the  horses  whose 
characters  are  worthy  of  record.  The  one 
of  which  I  write  comes  a  step  nearer  to 


142  STORIES   OF   THE   ARMY 

humanity  in  this,  that  a  shadow  of  mystery 
falls  upon  his  life  and  end.* 

He  belonged  to  the  Fremont  Hussars  ; 
but  how  he  came  into  the  regiment  no 
man  could  tell.  It  was  in  September, 
1861,  and  the  regiment,  not  yet  equipped, 
was  in  camp  near  St.  Louis.  Newly  built 
sheds  for  horses  and  newly  pitched  tents 
for  men  lay  in  parallel  lines,  and  around 
the  encampment  ran  the  high  fence  of 
the  "Abbey  Race  Track."  In  this,  the 

*  The  story  here  printed  is  not  fiction,  although, 
as  the  reader  will  perceive,  it  is  as  improbable  a 
story  of  a  horse  as  was  ever  written.  All  of  the 
facts  actually  occurred ;  the  most  improbable 
event  in  the  narrative  was  duly  substantiated 
by  legal  evidence  at  the  time,  and  this  evidence 
has  been  submitted  to  the  editor.  The  author 
is  one  of  the  seniors  of  our  Federal  judges  ;  the 
commanding  officer  of  the  regiment  first  referred 
to  was  Colonel  George  E.^ \Varing,  the  well- 
known  sanitary  engineer;  and  another  witness  of 
the  incidents  narrated  was  Colonel  James  F. 
Dwight,  recently  one  of  the  assignees  in  bank- 
ruptcy and  a  well-known  member  of  the  New 
York  bar. 


THE  TALE   OF  A  GOBLIN   HORSE      143 

first  flush  of  war,  recruits  poured  in,  a 
daily  stream ;  and  another  stream,  the 
troopers'  horses,  came  flowing  from  the 
Government  corrals.  These  two  streams, 
however,  did  not  flow  in  evenly  together  ; 
sometimes  the  men  were  in  excess,  some- 
times the  horses.  But  whenever  there 
was  a  surplus  of  the  latter,  although  the 
mass  would  remain  the  same,  there  would 
be  a  strange  disintegration  of  the  parti- 
cles. Sixty  horses  the  officer  in  charge 
would  leave  under  guard  at  nightfall, 
and  sixty  horses  would  be  found  under 
guard  at  daybreak ;  yet  how  changed ! 
So  many  sick !  so  many  lame  !  such  a 
noticeable  decrease  in  size  and  spirit ! 
For  the  Fremont  Hussars  consisted  large- 
ly of  German  veterans  who  knew  a  thing 
or  two  of  soldiering  and  horses,  and 
who  held  that  the  best  of  troopers  would 
be  useless  to  the  cause  of  freedom  un- 
less he  were  well  mounted.  Wherefore, 
as  the  "reserve  mounts"  grew  nightly 


144  STORIES   OF   THE   ARMY 

worse,  the  six  mounted  companies  ap- 
peared daily  better.  Such  fine  horses  they 
rode ;  all  so  healthy  and  sound.  ' '  Vhy 
are  our  horses  so  goot?  Vhy,  pecause 
ve  take  so  goot  care  of  tern."  One  could 
not  help  liking  these  kind-hearted  Dutch- 
men. 

But  when  the  seventh  company  came 
to  be  mounted  out  of  the  "  reserve 
mounts,"  then  there  was  awful  swearing 
to  be  heard  in  the  land — storms  of  harsh 
consonants  —  cataracts  of  Dutch  oaths. 
And  then  the  men  already  mounted,  like 
disinterested  patriots  seeking  to  throw  oil 
on  the  troubled  waters,  would  address 
the  to-be-mounted  in  calm  and  sooth- 
ing words  which  pointed  toward  future 
arrivals  of  horses  for  future  recruits,  and 
intimated  that  at  such  fortunate  epochs  it 
could  be  made  "allricht"  Whereupon, 
the  exasperated,  with  glances  thrown  to- 
ward the  distant  Government  corral,  and 
an  ominous  Germanic  jerk  of  the  head  ex- 


THE  TALE   OF  A  GOBLIN    HORSE      145 

pressive  of  much  inward  resolve,  would 
say  to  all  concerned,  "Never  mindt, 
never  mindt." 

In  this  state  of  equine  affairs  a  newly 
mustered  captain  of  the  regiment  await- 
ing the  arrival  of  his  own  private  horses, 
and  needing  a  temporary  mount,  looked 
despondingly  through  the  reserve,  and 
found  no  horse  which  it  would  become 
"an  officer  and  gentleman"  to  ride.  As 
he  stood  negotiating  the  purchase  of  a 
cheap  animal  from  a  brother  officer,  a 
sergeant  came  up,  and  said  that  there 
was  a  well-appearing  horse  in  the  ninth 
shed,  a  horse  that  no  one  seemed  to  own. 
The  party  walked  around  to  the  shed, 
and  at  one  end  of  it,  with  three  or  four 
of  the  rejected  "rats"  of  the  regiment, 
found  a  large  chestnut  sorrel,  in  appear- 
ance much  above  the  average  of  troop- 
ers' horses.  How  so  good-looking  an 
animal  came  to  be  standing  there,  in- 
stead of  in  some  of  the  six  companies' 


146  STORIES   OF  THE  ARMY 

stables,  was  the  first  question.  The  ser- 
geant had  observed  him  there  for  three 
days  past  or  more  ;  one  man  believed  he 
had  been  rejected  by  a  Prussian  veteran 
as  too  rough  a  trotter  ;  another  that  he 
had  thrown  his  rider;  but  no  one  really 
knew  anything  about  him.  The  inspect- 
ing officers  of  the  regiment  chanced  to  be 
lounging  near,  and  they  averred  that  they 
had  never  inspected  the  horse.  But  he 
bore  the  regimental  brand  and  stood  in 
the  regimental  stables. 

As  the  party  approached  the  horse  the 
captain  was  struck  with  his  breadth  of 
forehead  and  dark,  sinister  eye.  The 
sergeant  also  noticed  the  latter,  for  he 
immediately  said,  "  That's  a  wicked  eye 
he  has."  The  horse  quickly  turned  his 
head  toward  the  sergeant  and  looked  at 
him  steadily  with  a  mild,  contemplative 
expression  ;  the  remainder  of  the  party 
said  they  saw  nothing  wicked  about  him. 
As  they  waited  for  a  saddle  to  be  brought 


THE   TALE   OF  A   GOBLIN   HORSE      147 


the  horse  yawned,  stretching  his  deep 
mouth  wide,  and  disclosing  a  tongue  that 
had  been  half  cut  off,  i.e.,  about  mid- 
way in  the  tongue  were  the  remains  of 
a  deep  gash  which  had  nearly  severed 
it  in  two,  and  now  left  the  lower  half  of 
a  peninsula  connected  only  by  a  narrow 
isthmus  with  the  main  continent. 

The  saddle  came  and  an  Austrian  of- 
ficer mounted.  He  was  a  noble  of  the 
"  blue  blood,"  on  leave  of  absence,  and  a 
captain  of  the  Hussars.  He  rode  with 
the  stiff,  straight  leg  of  a  Continental 
cavalry  officer,  erect  and  commanding 
above  the  saddle ;  awkward  and  unbe- 
coming below — an  unyielding  seat,  ex- 
acting and  wearisome  to  man  and  beast. 
But,  like  all  of  the  Prussian  and  Austri- 
an officers,  he  understood  his  business 
thoroughly,  and  when  a  trooper  could 
not  manage  his  horse  on  drill,  it  was  his 
way  to  order  the  man  to  dismount  and 
ride  the  refractory  animal  for  him.  Un- 


148  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

der  his  easy  hand  the  horse  he  was  now 
trying  appeared  much  better  than  when 
in  the  stable,  moving  off  in  a  free,  bold 
trot,  with  head  and  ears  erect,  like  those 
hunters  which  English  painters  love  to 
sketch  trotting  to  the  "  meet,"  the  red 
coat  bending  forward  and  rising  in  the 
stirrups  with  every  stride.  His  trot  was, 
indeed,  a  trifle  too  high  and  rough  for 
a  McClellan  saddle  and  a  "hard-riding" 
seat ;  but  nothing  to  reject  a  good  horse 
for ;  and  there  was  a  superior  gallop  with 
long  and  steady  stride,  and  hoof-beats  fall- 
ing regular  as  clock-work.  There  was 
no  shying,  starting,  or  stumbling  ;  he  was 
neither  restive  nor  lazy  ;  he  moved  quietly 
and  freely ;  he  was  just  the  horse  that 
an  officer  would  choose  for  the  daily 
drill ;  and  the  only  Qbjection  that  appear- 
ed was  that  he  was  not  an  easy  horse 
"  to  ride  hard." 

"To   ride  hard"    doubtless  means,  to 
many  an  American,  to  ride  furiously.     In 


THE   TALE   OF   A   GOBLIN    HORSE      149 


fact,  it  is  the  distinguishing  term  between 
the  rising  and  falling,  easy  seat  of  the 
English  gentleman,  and  the  fixed,  im- 
movable seat  of  the  English  officer. 
When  the  Duke  of  Wellington  was  ask- 
ed:  "  How  long  is  a  man  fit  to  be  a 
general  ?  "  he  answered  :  "  As  long  as  he 
is  able  to  see  to  everything  himself  and 
ride  hard."  In  this  topsy-turvy  world  of 
ours  there  is  a  wonderful  compliance  of 
things  to  their  conditions.  All  men  have 
"  builded  better  than  they  knew,"  if  they 
have  but  built  at  all.  It  may  be  laid 
down  as  a  general  law  of  transportation, 
that  whenever  good  carriage-ways  are 
built  the  horseman  dismounts.  He  mounts 
again  for  parade  or  pleasure,  for  exer- 
cise or  excitement;  but  his  transpor- 
tation business  he  evermore  will  do  on 
wheels.  The  English  are  an  exception 
to  the  rule.  They  travel  in  the  saddle, 
they  ride  to  market,  to  Parliament,  to 
their  counting-houses,  to  their  hunting 


150  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

meets.  They  ride  twenty  miles  to  lunch, 
and  twenty  back  to  dinner ;  and  they 
ride  upon  hard  highways  and  smooth 
macadam  roads.  Generations  of  experi- 
ence have  taught  them  that  the  steady 
trot  and  shifting  seat  are  the  movements 
of  the  united  horse  and  man,  .which  yield 
to  both,  upon  solid  stone  roads,  the 
largest  amount  of  ease  with  the  least 
degree  of  strain.  The  trooper  with  his 
sabre,  and  the  cow-boy  with  his  lasso, 
cannot  surrender  the  free  activity  of  body 
and  arm.  They  must  always  be  in  the 
saddle.  In  the  deep  prairie  grass  the 
trotter  loses  his  feet ;  so  the  cow-boy  rides 
upon  an  easy  lope.  The  trooper  must 
ride  at  all  gaits,  and  hence  he  must  al- 
ways "ride  hard." 

The  Austrian  dismounted  and  spoke 
well  of  the  horse.  So  did  the  small 
crowd  of  horse-critics,  officers  and  men, 
that  gathered  round  him.  For  your  horse 
is  a  leveller  in  society  ;  and  in  the  stable 


THE   TALE   OF  A   GOBLIN   HORSE      151 

gentlemen  and  jockey  grow  familiar,  with- 
out contempt,  in  a  common  enthusiasm  ; 
and  in  the  cavalry  camp  officers  and  men 
mingle  around  the  leveller,  whose  best 
judge,  for  the  time,  is  the  best  man — the 
authority  of  highest  rank.  So  this  horse, 
which  had  been  dozing  for  days  amid  six 
hundred  sharp-eyed  horsemen — each  in 
want  of  a  better  horse  than  he  had — 
seemed  suddenly  to  awake  and  arouse  the 
interest  of  all  who  saw  bim. 

The  horse  had  not  been  bitted  ;  he  was 
not  "  bridle-wise,"  and  he  knew  but  one 
meaning  in  his  rider's  spur.  And  there 
was  no  time  to  train  him,  for  the  "  De- 
partment of  the  West"  was  a  bee-hive 
then,  without  drones.  The  untaught  offi- 
cers from  civil  life's  quiet  ignorance  had 
not  time  to  train  themselves.  There  was 
drilling  of  men,  inspecting  of  horses,  be- 
seeching ordnance  officers  for  arms,  im- 
ploring quarter  -  masters  for  clothing. 
Matchless  was  the  zeal  and  the  industry 


152  STORIES   OF   THE   ARMY 

that  reigned  in  every  camp  during  "  Fre- 
mont's hundred  days."  Yet  in  the  turmoil 
of  the  time  this  horse  seemed  to  learn  by 
looking  on,  and,  at  the  end  of  a  week,  to 
know  everything.  The  slightest  touch  of 
the  rein  upon  his  neck,  the  mere  motion 
of  the  rider's  hand,  the  gentlest  pressure 
of  the  leg,  would  wheel  him  without  the 
use  of  bit  or  bridle.  So  imperceptible 
were  the  means  employed,  that  some  who 
watched  him  thought  that  he  understood 
the  commands,  and  made  his  "right- 
wheel"  or  "left  turn"  at  the  mere 
word. 

It  was  observed  that  this  horse  seemed 
to  delight  in  drilling — in  drilling,  not  be- 
ing drilled.  It  was  as  the  captain's  horse, 
out  of  the  ranks  and  viewing  the  unhappy 
condition  of  his  kind,  that  he  was  happy. 
For,  as  the  "coach"  oT'a  boat's  crew  is 
properly  on  the  outside  of  the  boat,  so  the 
instructor  of  cavalry  is  always  on  the  out- 
side of  his  squad.  He  moves  but  little, 


THE   TALB   OF  A   GOBLIN    HORSE      153 

and  the  men  in  their  evolutions  revolve 
around  him.  Occasionally  he  changes  his 
position,  but  then  halts  to  command,  and 
explain,  and  criticise.  When  the  captain 
thus  halted,  and  the  reins  were  dropped, 
and  the  new  horses  in  the  ranks  were 
crowding,  and  kicking,  and  fretting,  and 
sweating,  then  would  this  one's  sinister 
eye  glow  with  Satanic  joy.  When  the 
squadron  passed  before  him  on  the  gallop, 
and  dull  horses  were  being  pricked  up  by 
spurs,  and  fiery  colts  wrenched  back  by 
curbs,  then  would  he  stand  placid  as  the 
Indian  summer  sky,  and  plant  his  fore- 
feet well  in  front  and  stretch  his  legs,  and 
body,  and  long  neck,  and  deep  jaws,  with 
such  exquisite  enjoyment  as  the  sight  of 
misery  might  give  the  animal  with  the 
cloven  hoof  and  tail,  from  the  stable  be- 
low. If  it  were  regimental  drill,  and  he 
was  denied  the  sweets  of  contemplation, 
then  would  he  take  his  place  in  front  of 
the  line  or  beside  the  column,  and  move 


154  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

with  the  regularity  of  a  machine,  indiffer- 
ent to  the  existence  of  all  other  horses. 
He  never  became  excited ;  he  never 
showed  the  ineradicable  desire  of  his 
kind  to  race  ;  he  led  down  deep  descents 
with  no  increase  of  speed,  and  up  sharp 
acclivities  without  "  losing  distance  ;  "  he 
did  not  swerve  a  hair's-breadth  for  a  huge 
heap  of  broken  stones,  but  mounted  and 
traversed  it  at  his  measured  trot.  Yet 
when  the  hours  of  drill  were  over,  and 
sounding  bugles,  and  shouting  drill-offi- 
cers, and  charging  squadrons  were  gone, 
and  the  prairie  was  deserted  and  still,  and 
any  other  horse  would  look  toward  the 
stable  and  seek  to  follow  his  mates,  then 
a  wild  excitement  would  sometimes  fall 
upon  this  one,  and  he  would"  rear,  and 
plunge,  and  kick,  and  gallop  around  and 
around  like  an  escaping  celt. 

The  horse  was  not  long  in  acquiring  a 
name.  At  first  he  was  known  as  "The 
Drill  Sergeant,"  but  there  was  soon  a 


THE  TALE   OF  A   GOBLIN   HORSE      155 

new  development  of  character  in  which, 
as  has  been  the  case  with  many  notable 
characters,  he  succeeded  in  making  a 
name  for  himself.  The  afternoon  drill 
was  over,  the  October  sun  was  sinking 
through  the  golden  haze,  and  the  captain, 
with  his  friend  D. ,  was  sauntering  from 
the  drill-ground  to  their  quarters.  It 
chanced  that  they  came  upon  a  young 
officer  trying  to  force  his  newly  bought 
horse  up  to  some  bloody  hides  that  hung 
upon  a  fence  beside  the  road.  They  vol- 
unteered a  precept  or  two  as  they  passed  ; 
but  precepts  are  mere  blank  cartridges, 
worth  nothing  without  the  projectile  of 
example.  The  young  officer  understood 
the  fact,  if  not  the  philosophy,  and  he  inti- 
mated a  wish  that  the  "Drill  Sergeant" 
might  be  ridden  up  to  the  fence,  and  he 
and  his  colt  be  shown,  not  told,  how  to  do 
it.  D.  had  dismounted  then  and  sent  his 
horse  to  the  stable,  but  he  applauded  the 
lieutenant's  sentiment,  and  said  that  it 


156  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

was  perfectly  fair ;  nothing,  he  thought, 
could  be  more  reasonable,  and  he  really 
hoped  it  would  not  be  passed  by  unno- 
ticed. The  captain  touched  the  "Drill 
Sergeant's  "  neck  slightly  with  the  rein, 
who  with  veteran-like  gravity  turned  and 
advahced  toward  the  fence.  The  captain 
was  sitting  loungingly  in  the  saddle,  with 
an  air  of  easy  listlessness,  one  foot  playing 
with  the  stirrup,  the  reins  hanging  loose 
upon  the  pommel.  He  was  thinking  that 
the  "  Drill  Sergeant  "  would  march  on 
until  his  breast  touched  the  fence,  and  he 
was  intending  to  say  that  if  young  officers 
would  train  their  colts  first,  and  acquire  a 
moral  control  over  them,  they  might  ride 
them  up  to  bloody  hides  also.  He  was 
indeed  just  turning  in  his  saddle  to  give 
utterance  to  the  precept,  when  there  was 
a  bolt  which  seemed  to  hfrri  a  small  earth- 
quake— a  bolt  rearward,  roundward,  up- 
ward, downward,  and  he  found  himself 
some  thirty  feet  distant,  and  the  "  Drill 


THE  TALE   OF  A  GOBLIN   HORSE      157 

Sergeant  "  standing  placidly  again  in  the 
middle  of  the  road.  The  rider  was  not 
unhorsed,  as  he  confessed  he  deserved  to 
have  been.  Without  knowing  how,  he 
had  kept  himself  on  the  "  Drill  Ser- 
geant's "  back,  who  was  now,  as  has  been 
said,  standing  placidly  in  the  road.  The 
young  officer  promptly  seized  his  oppor- 
tunity and  said,  sarcastically,  that  he  had 
expected  to  be  shown  how  to  do  it — he 
added  seriously  that  the  captain  had  bet- 
ter not  try  it  again,  for  that  horse  was  a 
wicked  one,  and  the  "  rock  road,"  with  its 
loose,  broken  stone,  a  bad  place  for  a  fall. 
D.  blandly  interposed,  and  thought  differ- 
ently. He  thought  the  captain  had  better 
try  it  again — when  surprised,  he  had  not 
been  thrown,  and  now  that  he  was  on  his 
guard  there  could  be  no  danger.  D. 
added  that  there  was  nothing  more  de- 
lightful than  to  witness  a  contest  between 
the  intelligence  of  man  and  the  power  of 
a  brute.  It  did  him  good,  he  said.  Be- 


158  STORIES  OF  THE   ARMY 

sides,  we  cavalry  officers  should  not  mind 
a  fall ;  we  must  get  used  to  them. 

The  captain  righted  himself  in  the  sad- 
dle and  gathered  up  the  reins.  He  had 
been  preaching  that  with  horses  things 
should  be  done  slowly  and  persistently  : 
but  as  mutiny  in  officers  is  worse  than 
mutiny  in  privates,  even  so,  bolting  by  a 
trained  and  sedate  horse  is  worse  than 
bolting  by  an  impulsive  colt,  and  must  be 
dealt  with  summarily.  The  captain  turned 
the  "  Drill  Sergeant "  again  toward  the 
fence ;  again  he  advanced  freely,  and 
again,  before  the  rider  could  find  time  or 
excuse  for  driving  the  spurs  into  him, 
there  was  the  same  rearward,  roundward 
bolt,  and  they  were  standing  in  the  middle 
of  the  road.  D.  applauded  highly,  and 
said  that,  if  desired,  he  would  "  certify  on 
honor  "  that  no  horse  ever  did  turn  around 
so  quickly  in  this  world.  He  added  that  he 
honestly  thought  that  the  captain  had  bet- 
ter try  it  again  ;  it  was  so  very  entertaining. 


THE   TALE   OF  A  GOBLIN    HORSE      159 

The  captain  and  the  horse,  externally, 
were  calm  ;  but  their  two  wills  had  crossed. 
As  the  horse  turned  for  the  third  time  to- 
ward the  fence,  a  philosopher  looking  on 
would  have  asked  whether  in  that  brute 
body  there  was  not  some  predeterminate 
resolve  ;  whether  the  mouth  with  the  bit 
in  it  was  not  more  tightly  shut,  and  the 
mane-covered  forehead  was  not  contracted 
and  knit ;  whether  the  angry  light  that  be- 
gan to  break  from  the  eyes  was  not  ra- 
diant from  some  angry  soul  within.  But 
here  the  cunning  of  the  human  intellect 
appeared  and  took  its  part  in  the  game — 
that  cunning  which,  when  applied  to  the 
movements  of  contending  armies,  we  call 
strategy — that  covert  ally  which  the  brute 
did  not  possess.  As  the  horse  moved  for- 
ward to  the  fence,  but  ere  the  bolting 
point  was  reached,  the  rider's  spurs  came 
biting  fiercely  upon  his  flanks,  driving  him 
forward,  and  the  reins  held  him  face  to 
face  with  the  spectre  on  the  fence  whither 


160  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

he  would  not  go.  Then  the  horse  became 
a  fury,  and  his  dark,  sinister  eyes  turned 
bloody  red.  The  rider's  knees  gripped 
the  saddle  more  closely,  and  his  arms 
grew  stronger  to  bend  the  strong  neck  of 
the  animal  and  to  rein  around  his  defiant 
head  ;  but  as  the  fight  grew  hot  his  cun- 
ning ally  fled  the  field  and  the  contest  be- 
came more  equal — strategy  no  longer  took 
a  part  in  the  struggle  ;  it  was  skill  and 
strength  against  strength  and  skill — the 
sharp  sting  of  the  spurs,  the  iron  hoofs 
beating  on  rocks  and  stones — each  creat- 
ure intuitively  knowing  and  resisting  every 
act  of  the  other,  neither  of  them  gaining 
or  losing  an  inch — the  one  no  nearer  his 
goal,  the  other  unable  to  fling  off  his  war- 
ring burden. 

But  it  was  a  battle  without  result ;  the 
bugle  sounded  the  "retreat;"  the  king 
of  the  tournament  dropped  his  warder  ; 
the  heralds  proclaimed  a  truce.  D.  said 
it  was  delightful,  charming,  but  that  we 


THE  TALE   OF   A   GOBLIN    HORSE      l6l 

must  go  to  the  roll-call  and  get  ready  for 
dinner,  and  have  it  out  in  the  morning. 

That  evening,  at  the  mess  dinner-table, 
the  battle  was  discussed.  D.  was  glow- 
ing in  his  description  and  declared  that 
the  "Drill  Sergeant"  should  be  named 
"  Tarquinius  Superbus."  The  majority 
thought  differently  and  named  him  "  Ani- 
mus Furiosus,"  and  after  that  they  called 
him  "Animus  "  for  short. 

The  following  morning  promised  to  be 
fateful,  but  the  battle  was  not  renewed. 
It  is  the  unexpected  that  happens  in  war. 
On  the  one  hand,  the  hides  were  gone ; 
on  the  other,  Animus  walked  serenely  up 
to  the  fence,  rested  his  neck  upon  it, 
looked  blandly  over  with  ears  inquiringly 
erect,  and  eyes,  for  the  moment,  as  inno- 
cent as  a  dove's. 

Innocent  he  continued  to  appear,  oblig- 
ing, sensible,  and  grave,  but  in  his  heart 
of  hearts  was  brewing  a  storm  of  resent- 
ment and  revenge.  A  week  or  two  passed 


162  STORIES   OF   THE   ARMY 

in  peace,  and  then  came  a  day  whereon 
the  company  to  which  Animus  belonged 
was  to  be  mustered  into  the  service  of  the 
United  States.  Animus  led  the  column 
to  the  mustering  officer's  official  abode, 
he  (and  the  mustering  officer)  alone  un- 
ruffled, unexcited.  His  rider  proud  and 
exultant  whenever  he  glanced  back  at  the 
ninety  splendid  young  fellows  who  rode 
behind.  A  splendid  company  it  was, 
splendidly  mounted,  and  as  the  tramping 
hoofs  resounded  through  the  streets  of 
St.  Louis,  the  two  sets  of  hearts  beat  fast- 
er, and  troopers  and  steeds  seemed 
equally  elate.  There  is  an  earthly  satis- 
faction in  the  human  beast  that  none  but 
the  trooper  knows  ;  when  the  cavalry  cap 
works  itself  jauntily  over,  inclining  toward 
the  right  ear  with  a  saucy  pitch  forward 
toward  the  right  eye,  requiring  the  head 
to  be  held  a  little  back,  and  the  chin  to  be 
drawn  a  little  in,  and  the  chest  to  be 
thrown  a  little  out ;  when  the  clattering 


THE   TALK    OF   A   GOBLIN    HORSE      163 


scabbard,  the  jingling  spurs,  the  champed 
bit,  unite  forces  with  the  prancing,  sym- 
pathetic vanity  of  the  horse ;  when  the 
eyes  that  won't  stay  "front,"  "right" 
and  "left"  up  at  second-story  windows, 
not  in  rude  civilian  stares,  but  in  gay, 
half-audacious,  half-deferential  glances  ! 
Oh,  reader,  when  you  see  the  troopers  in 
Washington  swaggering  about  the  Army 
headquarters,  envy  them,  for  you  know 
not  (unless  you  have  been  a  trooper) 
"how  good"  that  swagger  makes  them 
feel. 

Through  the  streets  of  St.  Louis,  Ani- 
mus led,  profoundly  indifferent  to  the 
citizens  around  him  ;  coolly  disdainful  of 
the  ninety  fretting,  fuming  steeds  behind. 
The  "fours"  formed  platoons,  and  the 
platoons  wheeled  into  line,  with  a  preci- 
sion that  must  have  made  the  calloused 
mustering  officer  think  himself  back  at 
West  Point.  And  then  there  came  two 
girls,  pretty  and  young,  with  smiling, 


164  STORIES  OF   THE  ARMY 

sympathetic  loyal  faces,  in  whom  the 
trooper's  saucy  airs  took  the  form  of  pretty 
timidity;  and  they  stopped  and  hesitated, 
and  almost  came  forward,  and  partly 
turned  back,  and  seemed  to  say  that  their 
important  business  did  really  require  them 
to  go  immediately  straight  onward  down 
the  street,  but  that  they  positively  could 
never  dare  to  pass  so  near  to  so  many  men 
and  such  terrible  horses ;  and  then  the 
captain  of  the  company — as  became  the 
captain  of  such  a  company — sought  to 
move  himself  a  trifle  farther  from  the  side- 
walk and  throw  a  chivalrous  yard  or  two 
of  safety  to  the  timorous  damsels ;  and 
then  Animus  flared  up. 

He  had  a  crooked  Roman  nose,  had 
Animus,  and  a  forehead  that  receded  and 
rounded  toward  the  oats;  he  was  good- 
looking  in  a  horseman's,  and  not  in  a  la- 
dy's, sense  of  the  term  ;  and  when  his  eyes 
turned  red  and  his  lips  opened  and  showed 
white  frothy  teeth,  I  have  no  doubt  but 


THE   TALE   OF  A   GOBLIN   HORSE      165 

that  this  head  of  his  looked  much  like 
a  wild  eagle's  head  on  a  horse's  body. 
The  two  girls  screamed  and  beat  a  retreat 
without  any  more  pretty  hesitation,  and 
the  rider's  blood  boiled  up  at  the  excuse- 
less  conduct,  and  he  rowelled  the  horse 
with  his  burnished  spurs  and  beat  him 
with  the  flat  of  his  polished  sabre. 

The  horse  seemed  frantic  ;  he  dashed 
against  the  brick  walls  of  the  houses  ; 
he  knocked  the  alignment  of  the  com- 
pany to  pieces  in  a  trice ;  he  banged 
against  front-steps  and  lamp-posts,  and 
sent  an  aged  cobbler  fleeing  through  the 
back  door  of  his  poor,  little  shop  ;  and  he 
plunged  and  beat  his  hoofs  upon  the  cel- 
lar-door as  if  he  meant  immediately  to  go 
by  that  route  to  the  place  below.  Then 
he  stopped — suddenly — instantaneously — 
not  quenched  or  quailing,  but  as  if  the 
fight  then  and  there  were  but  ammunition 
wasted,  and  he  had  better  save  the  cap- 
tain for  a  better  opportunity.  And  after 


l66  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

the  affair  was  over,  there  came  a  strong 
conviction  in  the  rider's  mind  that  the 
horse  might  have  done  more,  but  would 
not ;  and  friends  began  to  advise  that  he 
should  not  keep  that  beast  for  ser- 
vice; for,  they  said,  if  one  of  his  wild 
moods  should  come  in  action,  it  would  be 
certain  death  to  the  man  who  rode  him. 

Again  Animus  lapsed  into  quiet  work- 
ing ways,  biding  his  time  to  throw  con- 
tempt at  men  and  things.  An  opportu- 
nity came  one  fine  Sunday,  when  there  was 
a  grand  review  at  Benton  Barracks.  It 
was  the  first  time  the  young  soldiers  had 
seen  a  field  of  thousands,  and  to  them  the 
pageant  seemed  magnificent.  If  now, 
when  artillery  was  thundering,  and  infan- 
try presenting  arms,  and  a  dozen  regi- 
mental bands  were  playing  their  loudest, 
this  horse  should  rear  "and  pitch  as  half 
the  horses  in  the  line  were  doing,  it  would 
not  be  unreasonable,  and  indeed  would 
be  attributed  to  commendable  high  spirit. 


THE   TALE   OF  A   GOBLIN    HORSE      167 

The  captain  was  thinking  more  of  his 
company  than  of  his  horse,  and  indeed 
gave  him  no  thought,  till  the  general  and 
his  staff  came  down  the  line.  Then,  as 
the  important  moment  approached  when 
each  individual  volunteer  knew  that  he 
must  look  his  best,  and  all  eyes  were  "  to 
the  front,"  and  every  man  sitting  erect, 
then  he  glanced  down  to  see  how  Animus 
would  take  it,  and  in  his  astonishment 
whispered  to  D.  (who  was  next  on  the 
officers'  line),  and  nodded  at  the  horse. 
D.  looked  out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes 
(his  nose  being  straight  to  the  front,  his 
head  erect,  and  his  sabre  at  a  carry),  and 
then  he  turned  red  as  though  he  were 
choking,  and  shook  with  laughter  as  if  he 
might  fall  off  his  horse  ;  for  then,  as  the 
gorgeous  staff  swept  by,  and  the  regimen- 
tal bands  blew  their  loudest  blasts,  and 
everybody  was  all  excitement  and  other 
horses  were  well-nigh  crazed — then  Ani- 
mus had  composedly  crossed  his  fore-legs 


168  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

like  unto  the  legs  of  a  saw-buck,  and  had 
dropped  his  ears  back  upon  his  neck  like 
the  ears  of  a  rabbit,  and  had  calmly  shut 
his  eyes  and  serenely  sunk  into  counter- 
feit slumber. 

But  malice  still  reigned  in  the  heart  of 
Animus,  and  while  he  did  his  work  with  a 
gravity  above  horses,  he  never  let  slip  an 
opportunity  to  do  damage.  One  gloomy 
morning  after  the  company  had  been 
moved  from  the  Abbey  Track  into  Benton 
Barracks,  when  rain  had  been  falling  and 
freezing  all  night,  and  none  but  a  sharp- 
shod  horse  could  keep  his  feet,  Animus 
was  brought  up  to  the  quarters.  The  or- 
derly had  not  dared  to  bring  both  horses 
together  over  the  slippery  ground,  and 
when  he  went  back  he  hitched  Animus  to 
a  post  of  the  piazza..  Animus  did  not  mind 
being  hitched  ;  he  had-been  hitched  to 
that  post  a  hundred  times,  where  he 
would  shut  his  eyes  and  doze  by  the 
hour.  Around  the  corner  of  another 


THE   TALE   OF  A   GOBLIN   HORSE      169 

range  of  barracks  stood  an  infantry  regi- 
ment in  line,  and  the  sergeants  could  be 
heard  calling  their  rolls.  Nothing  dis- 
turbed the  horse,  for  nobody  was  stirring 
that  morning,  but  the  instant  the  orderly 
was  out  of  sight  he  began  to  pull  violent- 
ly at  the  halter.  The  red  eyes  were  upon 
him,  and  the  piazza  post  to  which  he  was 
hitched  was  a  contending  foe.  It  gave 
way  at  the  roof  and  broke  off  at  the  floor. 
It  was  a  stout  4  by  5  inch  joist,  twelve  feet 
long,  and  as  an  anchor  it  would  have 
brought  an  ordinary  horse  round  "head 
to  the  wind  ;  "  and  an  ordinary  horse 
breaking  loose  on  a  cold  rainy  day,  if  he 
had  made  off  with  it  in  tow,  would  have 
headed  for  his  stable.  Animus  turned  in 
the  opposite  direction,  and,  holding  his 
head  on  one  side  and  his  nose  near  to  the 
ground,  scoured  off  as  fast  as  he  could  go, 
the  joist  skimming  like  a  sled  over  the  icy 
glare.  He  headed  for  the  barracks,  be- 
hind which  was  the  infantry  regiment,  and 


170  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

all  who  saw  him  prayed  devoutly  that 
when  he  should  turn  the  corner  he  would 
lose  his  footing,  and  fall  and  break  his 
infernal  neck.  He  did  not,  and  as  the 
heavy  joist  swung  from  centrifugal  force 
almost  up  to  an  alignment  with  the  horse, 
everyone  thought  that  the  infernal  ma- 
chine, like  a  Roman  chariot  with  scythes 
on  the  axles,  must  mow  down  at  least 
twenty  men.  But  the  infantry,  when  the 
tornado  of  horse  and  timber  came  rushing 
around  the  corner,  broke  ranks  faster  than 
the  "  double  quick,"  and  the  joist  merely 
grazed  a  number  of  heroic  shins.  Then 
Animus,  seeing  that  he  had  failed  in  his 
diabolical,  or  rebel  design,  halted,  was 
caught  and  brought  back,  looking  both 
innocent  and  unconcerned. 

But  we  must  omit  some  of  the  inci- 
dents of  his  life  and  pass-to  his  mysterious 
taking  off.  In  the  dreariness  of  winter  and 
of  barrack-life  among  strangers  and  sick 
and  home-sick  men,  the  greatest  of  bless- 


THE  TALE  OF  A  GOBLIN    HORSE      171 

ings  was  a  day's  escape  from  the  camp. 
It  came  occasionally  in  the  guise  of  some 
duty  to  be  done  in  the  city,  and  one  lucky 
morning,  a  coveted  "pass"  reached  the 
captain's  quarters.  The  orderly  brought 
up  the  horses,  and  his  own  happening  to 
be  lame,  he  rode  Animus.  A  merry,  ac- 
tive, light-hearted  German  boy  was  the 
orderly ;  familiar,  yet  never  presumptu- 
ous ;  scrupulous  and  rigid  in  the  punctili- 
ous respect  he  always  paid  to  his  captain. 
None  but  a  German  could  unite  so  much 
familiar  ease  with  so  much  ceremonious 
deference.  Unbidden,  he  held  bit  and 
stirrup  as  the  officer  mounted  ;  untaught, 
he  "  took  distance  "  behind  him  and  never 
varied  from  his  respectful  place.  If  the 
captain's  horse  trotted,  his  trotted ;  if  the 
captain's  galloped,  his  galloped;  and 
never  had  the  captain  given  the  orderly 
command  or  hint.  He  had  been  quick  to 
find  out  from  old  Prussian  soldiers  the 
respect  which  he  should  ceremoniously 


172  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

pay  his  officer,  and  was  proud  to  pay  it. 
But  suddenly  there  came  from  the  order- 
ly a.  blast  of  Dutch  execration  ;  he  was  al- 
most out  of  the  saddle,  and  Animus  about 
to  finish  the  job.  The  captain  sung  out 
sharply  to  the  horse,  who  stopped  in- 
stantly, and  the  orderly  climbed  back  and 
recovered  his  seat.  For  more  than  three 
months  had  the  orderly  taken  care  of  Ani- 
mus, and  more  than  three  hundred  times 
had  he  ridden  him  bare-back  to  water. 
He  could  not  account  for  this  freak  now 
"  Tee  horse  go  quiet — I  no  do  anything, 
and  then  he  throw  me  oft"  most;"  and 
there  came  mingling  terms  of  indignation 
and  reproach  addressed  privately  to  Ani- 
mus in  smothered  German. 

The  city,  after  the  camp,  seemed  civil- 
ization, cleanliness,  decency,  comfort ; 
a  warm  bath  and  an  afm-chair  luxuries 
too  great  for  times  of  war.  The  captain 
entered  Barnum's  Hotel  with  such  a  lov- 
ing feeling  as  no  hotel  can  kindle  again. 


THE   TALE   OF  A   GOBLIN    HORSE      173 


And  the  cheery  proprietors,  Messrs.  Bar- 
num  &  Fogg  —  many  a  wounded  and 
home-sick  officer's  blessing  rests  upon 
them — they  seemed  angels  in  disguise, 
with  the  difference  that,  instead  of  seeking 
entertainment,  they  entertained. 

The  captain  found  a  friend  at  the  hotel 
and  they  dined  together  in  the  ladies'  ordi- 
nary ;  and  the  ladies  appeared  divinely 
graceful  after  one  had  seen,  for  weeks, 
nothing  but  men  in  stiff  Quaker  coats, 
dyed  blue,  with  a  row  of  brass  buttons 
down  the  front.  And  after  dinner  the  two 
friends  smoked  and  talked,  and  felt  so  at 
ease,  by  their  two  selves,  with  no  dense 
throng  around  them  ;  but  part  they  must, 
for  the  lieutenant  had  been  ill — lucky  dog 
— and  had  a  week's  leave,  and  was  not  to 
go  back  to  the  barracks  that  night. 

When  eight  o'clock  came  the  captain 
pulled  on  his  overcoat,  bade  good-night, 
and  with  slow,  reluctant  steps,  went  down 
into  the  street.  The  orderly,  true  to  a 


174  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

minute,  was  coming  with  the  horses,  rid- 
ing the  captain's  mare,  to  keep  the  saddle 
dry  ;  for  the  weather  had  changed  and  the 
cold  north  wind  was  blowing  a  gale  and 
snow  beating  fiercely  down.  The  captain 
pulled  up  his  coat-collar  and  mounted  ; 
the  orderly  swung  himself  into  his  own 
saddle,  and  off  they  went  through  deserted 
streets,  and  dark,  bleak  suburbs. 

"But  as  they  passed  from  the  lights  of 
the  town  into  the  gloom  beyond,  Animus 
again  made  one  of  his  savage  bolts,  and 
again  the  orderly  was  half  out  of  the 
saddle  and  clinging  by  the  mane.  The 
captain  sung  out  to  the  horse  as  before, 
and  the  horse,  as  before,  obeyed  and 
stopped.  They  rode  fast,  they  rode  slowly, 
but  again  and  again  and  again  this  per- 
formance was  repeated^;  J:he  orderly  never 
quite  unhorsed,  the  horse  always  stopping 
the  instant  he  was  commanded. 

At  length  they  reached  the  camp.  As 
the  captain  dismounted  at  his  quarters, 


THE   TALE   OF  A   GOBLIN   HORSE      175 

he  gave  a  reluctant,  a  delicate  intimation 
to  the  orderly  that  it  would  be  wise  to  dis- 
mount and  lead  the  horses  to  the  stable. 
The  orderly,  who  was  well-nigh  in  tears 
at  Animus's  ungrateful  conduct,  regarded 
the  proposition  as  extraordinary,  which  it 
was  ;  and  he  pleaded,  with  German  vehe- 
mence, that  the  whole  company  would 
laugh  at  him  and  "  the  boys  "  would  shout 
whenever  they  saw  him:  "Where's  the 
man  who  couldn't  ride  his  own  horse  to 
the  barn?"  which  they  would.  He  also 
urged  that  he  could  ride  any  horse  in  the 
world,  and  that  no  horse  in  the  world 
would  "  cut  up"  at  the  end  of  a  day's 
work,  when  his  accustomed  groom  was 
taking  him  to  his  accustomed  stable.  The 
last  argument  seemed  reasonable,  and 
indeed  the  original  suggestion  began  to 
appear  absurd.  The  captain,  in  unspoken 
words,  yielded  the  point ;  the  orderly 
wheeled  the  horses  and  moved  off,  riding 
the  one  and  leading  the  other.  A  shadowy 


176  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

sense  of  coming  catastrophe  kept  the  cap- 
tain at  his  door,  watching  them  until  he 
saw  horses  and  horseman  turn  the  corner 
of  the  barracks  and  disappear.  Then  he 
unpadlocked  the  door  and  lighted  his 
candle.  A  small  room  roughly  boarded 
off  from  the  men's  quarters,  an  army  cot 
covered  with  a  couple  of  rough  army 
blankets,  a  "  mess-chest  table,"  a  camp 
chair,  a  spare  saddle,  and  horse-trappings, 
a  fireless  stove,  an  atmosphere  laden  with 
the  dust  and  noise  and  stale  tobacco- 
smoke  of  the  men's  quarters.  The  captain 
and  his  company  were  then  the  victims 
of  a  combination  between  unscrupulous 
political  selfishness,  on  the  one  side,  and 
arbitrary  military  power,  on  the  other — a 
doubly  dangerous  union ;  for  military 
power  is  bad  enough  alone,  and  needs  to 
be  restrained  and  guided  by  honor  and 
impartiality.  The  company  had  been 
stolen  from  the  regiment  in  which  all  had 
enlisted,  and  been  taken  to  help  make  up 


THE  TALE   OF  A  GOBLIN   HORSE      177 

a  new  command  for  somebody's  son-hi- 
law.  Hence,  at  this  time,  the  captain  was 
friendless  and  alone. 

He  did  not  unbutton  his  overcoat  nor 
kindle  his  fire,  but  paced  up  and  down 
the  narrow  room,  thinking  at  first  of  the 
horse,  and  then  of  Barnum's,  and  then  of 
home.  He  thought  and  walked,  and 
walked  and  thought  until,  unexpectedly, 
the  door  opened  and  the  orderly  ap- 
peared. Pain  and  mortification  and  truth- 
ful resolve  struggled  in  the  lines  of  his 
face.  "  Cap-e-tan,  the  horse  trow  me  ;  he 
run  away  in  the  Fair  Grounds,  he  jump 
over  a  pile  of  wood.  I  hav  look-ed,  and 
look-ed,  and  can  no  find  him." 

What  infernal  imp  had  possessed  this 
strange  animal  ?  The  orderly  was  a  good 
rider,  a  good  groom,  possessed  of  great 
power  over  horses.  Others  would  follow 
him  without  bridles,  like  dogs.  Why  had 
this  brute  flung  him  off  on  the  instant  that 
he  turned  toward  his  own  stable,  and  then 


178  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

galloped  off  into  the  darkness  and  the 
storm?  When  the  orderly  shot  out  of  the 
saddle,  the  captain's  mare  had  gone 
straight  to  her  own  stall  in  the  stable. 

The  orderly  got  a  lantern  and  led  the 
way  to  the  place  where  he  was  unhorsed, 
at  the  end  of  the  barracks — thence  and 
across  the  wide  expanse  of  the  parade, 
and  into  the  Fair  Grounds  and  to  a  pile  of 
corded  wood,  five  feet  at  least  in  height 
and  four  in  thickness.  What  horse  would 
choose  to  rush  at  such  a  leap  on  a  dark 
night  and  with  slippery,  snowy  footing — 
at  such  a  needless  leap?  But  by  the  light 
of  the  lantern  could  be  seen  a  horse's 
trail  which  led  up  to  the  wood-pile,  broke 
off,  and  reappeared  on  the  other  side. 
They  resumed  the  search.  The  trail  led 
through  the  grove  of  the  Fair  Grounds, 
and  at  last  was  lost"  in  the  deepening 
snow.  As  the  searchers  stopped,  the  storm 
roared  through  the  swaying  branches 
above  them  as  if  the  powers  of  the  air 


THE  TALE   OF  A   GOBLIN    HORSE      179 


were  on  the  blast,  and  the  horse  had  gone 
to  meet  them.  The  captain  and  the  or- 
derly came  hack  into  the  encampment, 
where  a  soldier,  plodding  through  the 
snow,  told  them  that  he  had  just  seen  a 
horse  near  by.  They  resumed  their  quest, 
and  soon  found  Animus  standing  within 
the  shelter  of  an  empty  tent.  But  on  the 
snowy  floor  beneath  him  \ras  a  small  red 
pool,  and  on  his  right  flank,  between  the 
body  and  the  leg,  was  a  frightful  gash — 
the  gash  you  cut  in  carving  the  leg  of  a 
fowl — a  "clean  cut,"  and  large  enough 
for  one  to  lay  in  it  his  hand,  wide-spread. 
Animus  looked  morose  and  stern — not 
sad  or  repentant. 

He  was  led  to  his  stable  and  the  regi- 
mental farrier  came,  who  brought  other 
regimental  farriers  in  consultation,  just 
as  humanity's  farriers  come  and  consult 
over  human  victims.  "  Extraordinary," 
they  all  pronounced  the  wound,  and  with- 
out a  precedent ;  and  they  all  vouchsafed 


l8o  STORIES   OF   THE   ARMY 

theories,  but  agreed  on  none  ;  and  finally 
they  all  concluded  that  nothing  could  be 
done — the  patient  must  be  abandoned  to 
nature  and  cooling  washes,  and  his 
"  chances." 

A  fortnight  later,  when  the  wound  was 
at  its  worst,  and  the  horse  was  standing, 
day  and  night,  upon  three  legs,  great 
news  came  roaring,  and  yelling,  and  hur- 
rahing through  Camp  Benton — news  of 
victory — of  the  first  decisive  victory  of  the 
war;  that  Foote  had  taken  Fort  Henry 
with  his  "Tin-Clads,"  that  the  river  was 
open,  and  the  Stars  and  Stripes  flying  in 
Tennessee.  An  hour  later  came  more 
significant  news  for  some — "  The  Fifth 
Iowa  Cavalry  will  march  instantly." 

It  takes  a  new  regiment  in  barracks  at 
least  twelve  hours  to  ^inarch  instantly." 
Rations  to  be  cooked,  tents  to  be  over- 
hauled (the  guys  gnawed  by  suspected 
mice,  the  pegs  burnt  by  unsuspected 
criminals),  men  swearing  that  their  horses 


THE   TALE   OF  A  GOBLIN   HORSE      l8l 


must  be  shod,  blacksmiths  swearing  that 
their  forges  must  be  packed,  mules  sedi- 
tiously kicking  the  harness  to  pieces  the 
moment  they  hear  that  they  are  to  be  put 
to  some  practical  purpose  ;  every  man 
suddenly  discovering  that  somebody  has 
jayhawked  his  boots  or  his  blanket ;  and 
the  quarter-sergeant  discovering  that  the 
boots  are  packed  and  loaded,  and  the 
blankets  too  few  to  go  round  ;  lieutenants 
and  sergeants,  corporals  and  men  excit- 
edly rushing  to  their  captain  in  their  in- 
dividual perplexity ;  the  captain  for  a 
time  the  unhappy  mother  of  a  distracted 
family,  that  wants  everything  and  doesn't 
know  what  it  doesn't  want ;  finally,  the 
sergeant-major  of  the  regiment,  com- 
ing round  every  hour  to  say  to  every 
company  that  every  other  company  in 
the  regiment  is  ready  and  waiting  for 
this  one,  and  that  the  colonel  wants  to 
know  how  much  longer  they  must  wait, 
etc.,  etc. 


l82  STORIES   OF   THE   ARMY 

The  turmoil  lasted  during  the  night,  but 
as  the  sun  came  up  o'er  the  smoky  city 
the  column  moved  ;  and  the  hoof-beats 
on  the  frozen  ground  and  rumbling  bag- 
gage-wagons rolled  out  a  farewell  to  Ben- 
ton  Barracks.  The  captain,  then  a  mem- 
ber of  a  court-martial  sitting  at  the  Bar- 
racks, could  not  march  with  his  men,  and 
had  to  remain  until  the  formal  order 
should  come  dissolving  the  court  With 
an  impatient  heart  he  stood  watching 
the  long-drawn  column  wind  around  the 
parade  and  pass  through  the  gateway  of 
the  camp,  and  saw,  last  of  all,  the  order- 
ly disappear  leading  his  own  blanketed 
horses.  Then  he  turned  and  handed  a 
"pass"  to  his  servant,  and  gave  him  di- 
rections to  lead  Animus  slowly  to  the 
"sick  stable." 

The  "company  stable"  was  but  a 
stone's  throw  distant  from  where  they 
stood,  and  only  a  few  minutes  had  passed 
since  "  Boots  and  Saddles  "  had  sound- 


THE   TALE   OF  A   GOBLIN    HORSE      183 

ed  and  the  company  horses  had  been 
led  out,  leaving  the  wounded  horse  the 
only  tenant  of  the  long  shed.  Mood- 
ily he  had  continued  to  gaze  at  his  man- 
ger, giving  to  his  departing  mates  barely 
a  glance,  but  neither  whinny  nor  regret. 
The  man  took  the  "pass"  and  went 
directly  to  the  shed.  In  the  first  moment, 
when  all  eyes  were  withdrawn,  Animus 
had  disappeared. 

"Disappeared  but  not  lost,"  everyone 
said;  for  barracks  and  stables  were  en- 
closed by  a  wooden  wall  twelve  feet  high, 
and  guarded  by  sentinels,  and  through 
the  only  exit  no  one  could  go  without 
a  "pass,"  and  the  guards  at  the  gate 
were  notified  to  stop  him,  thief  and  all. 
Moreover,  the  horse  had  not  set  his  lame 
leg  to  the  ground  for  a  fortnight,  and  it 
was  doubted  whether  he  could  hobble 
on  three  legs  to  the  sick  stable.  Besides, 
who  would  want  a  disabled  animal,  not  fit 
for  service  now,  nor  for  months  to  come  ; 


184  STORIES   OF  THE  ARMY 

and  was  not  a  man  leading  a  desperately 
lame  horse  in  broad  daylight  a  noticeable 
object  that  a  thousand  men  would  see 
and  remember?  The  camp  was  searched 
— searched  for  two  days  through  every 
stable,  tent,  and  shed  that  could  hold  a 
horse.  The  case  was  stated  to  every 
cavalry  commander,  and  his  word  of  honor 
pledged  that,  if  the  horse  were  "  hidden 
away"  by  any  one  of  "his  boys,"  no 
matter  what  their  genius  for  hiding  horses 
away  might  be,  he  should  nevertheless 
be  found  and  given  up.  A  reward  was 
offered,  and  Animus  was  described  by  his 
peculiar  regimental  brand  and  tongue 
and  wound;  and  the  advertisement  was 
posted  in  every  quarter-master's  office, 
and  corral,  and  livery-stable.  Finally  a 
shrewd,  quiet  man  was  set  at  work  as 
detective  ;  and,  six  morrths  later,  the  cap- 
tain, piqued  by  all  his  failures,  went  back 
to  St.  Louis  and  himself  tried  to  find  a 
clew  to  the  mystery.  No  clew  was  found. 


THE   TALE   OF  A  GOBLIN   HORSE      185 

Animus  had  disappeared ;  that  was  what 
was  said  at  first,  and  all  that  could  be  said 
at  last;  he  had  disappeared.  Indeed  it 
might  be  sung  of  him  as  of  Thomas  the 
Rhymer, 

"  And  ne'er  in  haunts  of  living  men 
Again  was  Thomas  seen." 

At  this  point,  doubtless,  there  will  be 
expected  an  explanation  such  as  comes 
at  the  end  of  a  novel.  But  the  tale  is 
true.  The  mysteries  of  truth  are  often 
lacking  in  the  explanations  of  fiction. 
The  case  was  laid  before  D. ,  who  had 
been  a  United  States  District  Attorney 
before  he  became  a  captain  of  volunteers, 
and  was  versed  in  the  ways  of  "working 
up  a  case  "  against  counterfeiters  on  land 
or  pirates  at  sea.  He  wrote  back  a  letter 
— a  beautiful  letter — expressing  in  charm- 
ing terms  his  regret,  his  very  great  regret, 
that  so  interesting  a  character  as  his  friend 
Animus  should  have  withdrawn  from  the 
sphere  of  human  observation.  But  when 


l86  STORIES   OF   THE  ARMY 

he  came  to  the  explanation  his  profes- 
sional experience  and  legal  acumen  were 
futile ;  and  he  had  to  fall  back  (evasive- 
ly) upon  the  supernatural ;  Animus  was 
clearly  a  fiend — an  emissary  of  the  Devil 
or  J.  Davis  (it  made  very  little  difference 
which,  he  said),  who  had  marked  the 
captain  for  his  peculiar  prey.  On  the 
day  of  his  wound  (which  need  not  be 
accounted  for),  fearing  that  he  was  to 
become  the  orderly's  horse  and  that  the 
captain  would  thereby  escape  his  toils,  he 
resorted  to  strategy  ;  and,  like  all  fiends 
resorting  to  strategy,  overacted  his  part ; 
whereby  vice  is  defeated  and  virtue 
escapes.  Finding  his  schemes  subverted 
and  his  efforts  brought  to  nought,  and 
disbelieving  that  he  was  to  be  the  object 
of  humanitarian  care  or  Christian  charity 
— the  latter,  moreover:  being  justly  offen- 
sive to  him — he  seized  upon  the  first 
moment  when  unseen  by  mortal  or  equine 
eye  to  vanish  in  a  puff  of  smoke. 


STORIES  FROM  SCRIBNER 

STORIES  OF 

NEW  YORK 


NEW  YORK 

HARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1893 


In  this  series  of  little  books,  issued  under  the 
general  tide  "  Stories  from  Scribner,"  the  purpose 
has  been  to  gather  together  some  of  the  best  and 
most  entertaining  short  stories  written  for  Scrib- 
ner's  Magazine  during  the  past  few  years,  and  to 
preserve  them  in  dainty  volumes  grouped  under 
attractive  subjects  and  decorated  by  a  few  illus- 
trations to  brighten  the  pages. 

The  set  as  arranged  consists  of  six  volumes,  the 


first  two  appearing  together  and  the  other  four 
at  intervals  of  about  a  month,  as  follows  : 

Stories  of  New  York. 
Stories  of  the  Railway. 
Stories  of  the  South. 
Stories  of  the  Sea. 
Stories  of  Italy. 
Stories  of  the  Army. 

The  books  are  furnished  in  three  bindings,  the 
paper  being  the  same  in  all.  Each  edition  is  pre- 
pared with  great  care,  and  every  effort  has  been 
made  to  secure  an  example  of  book-making  as 
dainty  and  perfect  as  possible. 

The  paper  edition  is  enclosed  in  a  transparent 
wrapper,  fastened  by  a  gold  seal  which  shouid  re- 
main unbroken  until  the  book  reaches  the  hands 
of  the  reader.  Price,  50  cents  a  volume. 

The  cloth  edition  has  gilt  top  and  rough  edges. 
Price,  75  cents  a  volume. 

The  half  calf  edition  is  bound  in  the  best  leather 
and  in  two  colors  —  blue  and  claret  —  gilt  top. 
Price,  $  1.50  a  volume. 

Orders  for  the  entire  set  may  be  sent  to  the 
publishers  or  to  any  bookseller. 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S^SJONS,  New  York. 


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